'Do you not believe, Bryan----'
He interrupted her, almost vehemently. 'I believe in nothing! If that does not content you, I cannot help it.'
'If I could assist you, Bryan--if I could in any way relieve you----'
'You cannot. I am fixed. Life for me is tasteless.'
Something of desolation was in his tone as he said this, but its plaintiveness was not designed by the speaker. Rather did he intend to express defiance, and a renunciation of sympathy.
'But, Bryan,' said my mother, with a tender movement towards him----
'I must stop you,' he said, 'for fear you should say something which would compel an explanation from me. Let matters rest I am but one among hundreds of millions of crawlers. Once I saw other than visible signs--or fancied that I saw them, fool that I was! The time has gone, never to return; the power of comprehension has gone, never to return. You must take me as you find me. There is very little in the world that I like or dislike; but I can heartily despise one thing: insincerity. Have you anything more to say?'
'No, Bryan;' and I could see that my mother was both pained and relieved.
'I have; two or three words. A question first. You can be satisfied to remain here?'
'Yes, Bryan, if it satisfies you. I can do no better.'