A wave of bitterness swept over me too at that.
"I see," I replied, coldly. "You are considering your own interest only. Well, we have no right to expect any more. You have only known us a short time."
He did not speak, and I walked forward to the palisade that hedged the garden, and leaned my arms upon it, looking out to the sea. After a little while he came to my side.
"Well, you see," said he, in a softer voice, "a man is bound to consider his own interests to that extent at least—so far as doing his work honestly is concerned. I consider a man a thief who doesn't do what he has to do to the best of his lights."
"I quite understand that," answered I. "I quite understand that it would be more comfortable for you to go away."
"I should be very sorry to go away," replied he, simply. "I like the place, and I like the work, and I like the people."
"Then why do you go?" asked I, bluntly.
"A man must have his convictions," repeated he, doggedly.
I looked up at him now.
"Yes," I said, firmly. "Father has his convictions too. They are not your convictions, but he cares just as much about them. You ought to make allowances for that."