She rang under my feet like an empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, but I had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. No influential friend would have served me better. She had given me a chance to come out a bit⁠—to find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don’t like work⁠—no man does⁠—but I like what is in the work⁠—the chance to find yourself. Your own reality⁠—for yourself, not for others⁠—what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means.