He felt a sort of languor after pain, and, as they walked, went on dreamily: “Such a queer evening, Geoffrey, horrible!—yet no, splendid too. Facing things is splendid isn’t it? I want to tell you something, Geoffrey—to confess something—I want you to know. That winter—when I thought I could not marry Felicia, I went pretty far with Angela. I thought everything was up with me; I didn’t care much where I drifted. And I did drift. Nothing much more than there has always been, Geoffrey; with Angela it was never a case of playing with fire, the danger was of getting frozen into the ice. It was abominable of me—caddish;” Maurice’s dreamy voice had a dignity that seemed to hold all other reproach than his own at arm’s length, a dignity so strange and new that Geoffrey even at the moment’s great upsurging of bitterness, regret and question could repress it as unworthy, not only of himself, but of Maurice. “Abominable—abominable,” Maurice repeated, “for I let her think—more than ever—that I cared—something. She is odious to me, Geoffrey. I can’t be just to her.”
Geoffrey said nothing, but his quiet profile made confidences as easy as peaceful breathing; the confidences that could be told. The others—ah! that distant wailing of regret. But in this dreamy mood even that was very distant. “Perhaps, dear old fellow—if I’d told you—on that night, you wouldn’t have cared to help me.”
Maurice stated the fact calmly, looked at it calmly. “In that case—what would I be, Geoffrey?—if you and Felicia had not made me?”
In the still, sleeping town, chill with a coming dawn, they were as near as spirits, walking together through old memories.
“I would have cared to help you—and her,” said Geoffrey.
“Ah! well; perhaps;” Maurice sighed a little. “While I’m away, Geoffrey, see a lot of Felicia, and, Geoffrey, see that Angela doesn’t get near her. Her silly old father dislikes you, but you won’t mind that. He suspected you of being in love with her, so I informed him that he was right. Dear old Geoff! You will see after her?”
“I don’t mind the father; I would mind making it difficult for her to get on with him.”
“Oh! you won’t. He’s had to accept it. I wouldn’t like to go if you weren’t here to see after her. So you don’t regret making me?”
“Making you and her so happy?” Geoffrey smiled, humouring his child-like mood.
“I do make her happy? You see it. It’s your reward, my dear friend. That’s what I want to say to you. I’ve said it often enough to myself. You shall never regret it, so help me God.”