“I wish you would say if you agree with me,” cried he at last.
“I suspect very few would give the permission,” said Julia, “but that you are one of that few I believe also.”
“Yes, Gusty,” said Nelly. “Refuse it, and what becomes of that fair spirit in which you have so often said you desired to meet this issue?”
“What does George say?” asked Bramleigh. “Let's hear the Church.”
“Well,” said L'Estrange, in that hesitating, uncertain way he usually spoke in, “if a man were to say to me, 'I think I gave you a sovereign too much in change just now. Will you search your purse, and see if I'm not right?' I suppose I'd do so.”
“And of course you mean that if the restitution rose to giving back some thousands a year, it would be all the same?” said Julia.
“It would be harder to do, perhaps—of course; I mean—but I hope I could do it.”
“And I,” said Bramleigh, in a tone that vibrated with feeling, “I hoped a few days back that no test to my honesty or my sincerity would have been too much for me—that all I asked or cared for was that the truth should prevail—I find myself now prevaricating with myself, hair-splitting, and asking have I a right to do this, that, or t'other? I declare to heaven, when a man takes refuge in that self-put question, 'Have I the right to do something that inclination tells me not to do?' he is nearer a contemptible action than he knows of. And is there not one here will say that I ought, or ought not, to refuse this request?”
“I do not suppose such a request was ever made before,” said L'Estrange. “There lies the real difficulty of deciding what one should do.”
“Here's a note from Mr. Sedley,” cried Nelly. “Is it not possible that it may contain something that will guide us?”