“I know you do,” said Ethel. “It was only a bad dream.”
“I hope I may be forgiven for it,” said Norman. “I do not know how far it was sin. It was gone so far as that my mind was convinced last Christmas, but the shame and sting remained. I was not at peace again till the news of this spring came, and brought, with the grief, this compensation—that I could cast behind me and forget the criticisms and doubts that those miserable debates had connected with sacred words.”
“You will be the sounder for having fought the fight,” said Ethel.
“I do not dread the like shocks,” said her brother, “but I long to leave this world of argument and discussion. It is right that there should be a constant defence and battle, but I am not fit for it. I argue for my own triumph, and, in heat and harassing, devotion is lost. Besides, the comparison of intellectual power has been my bane all my life.”
“I thought ‘praise was your penance here.’”
“I would fain render it so, but—in short, I must be away from it all, and go to the simplest, hardest work, beginning from the rudiments, and forgetting subtle arguments.”
“Forgetting yourself,” said Ethel.
“Right. I want to have no leisure to think about myself,” said Norman. “I am never so happy as at such times.”
“And you want to find work so far away?”
“I cannot help feeling drawn towards those southern seas. I am glad you can give me good-speed. But what do you think about my father?”