Most of us are—­balanced; in spite of occasional reveries we do come to terms with the limitations of life, with those desires and dreams and discretions that, to say the least of it, qualify our nobility, we take refuge in our sense of humour and congratulate ourselves on a certain amiable freedom from priggishness or presumption, but for Benham that easy declension to a humorous acceptance of life as it is did not occur.  He found his limitations soon enough; he was perpetually rediscovering them, but out of these interments of the spirit he rose again—­remarkably.  When we others have decided that, to be plain about it, we are not going to lead the noble life at all, that the thing is too ambitious and expensive even to attempt, we have done so because there were other conceptions of existence that were good enough for us, we decided that instead of that glorious impossible being of ourselves, we would figure in our own eyes as jolly fellows, or sly dogs, or sane, sound, capable men or brilliant successes, and so forth—­practicable things.  For Benham, exceptionally, there were not these practicable things.  He blundered, he fell short of himself, he had—­as you will be told—­ some astonishing rebuffs, but they never turned him aside for long.  He went by nature for this preposterous idea of nobility as a linnet hatched in a cage will try to fly.

And when he discovered—­and in this he was assisted not a little by his friend at his elbow—­when he discovered that Nobility was not the simple thing he had at first supposed it to be, he set himself in a mood only slightly disconcerted to the discovery of Nobility.  When it dawned upon him, as it did, that one cannot be noble, so to speak, in vacuo, he set himself to discover a Noble Society.  He began with simple beliefs and fine attitudes and ended in a conscious research.  If he could not get through by a stride, then it followed that he must get through by a climb.  He spent the greater part of his life studying and experimenting in the noble possibilities of man.  He never lost his absurd faith in that conceivable splendour.  At first it was always just round the corner or just through the wood; to the last it seemed still but a little way beyond the distant mountains.

For this reason this story has been called the research magnificent.  It was a real research, it was documented.  In the rooms in Westhaven Street that at last were as much as one could call his home, he had accumulated material for—­one hesitates to call it a book—­let us say it was an analysis of, a guide to the noble life.  There after his tragic death came his old friend White, the journalist and novelist, under a promise, and found these papers; he found them to the extent of a crammed bureau, half a score of patent files quite distended and a writing-table drawer-full, and he was greatly exercised to find them.  They were, White declares, they are still after much experienced handling, an indigestible aggregation.  On this point White is very assured.  When Benham thought he was gathering together a book he was dreaming, White says.  There is no book in it. . . .