His tone, its reminder of his intolerance of any independence of thought in a woman, or in anyone around him for that matter, brought the color to her cheeks. "A man who does wrong, but thinks he is doing right, is not ashamed," she answered. "If he shuffles and conceals, you may be sure he does not deceive himself, no matter how completely his pretense deceives you."
There seemed to be no answer to this. It made ridiculous nonsense of the familiar excuse for reputable rascality, the excuse he had heard a thousand times, and had accepted without question. But it also somehow seemed a home thrust through his own armor. With anger that was what he would have called feminine in its unreasonableness, he demanded, "Then you don't think I have the right to tear Fosdick down?"
"If you are going to tear them all down, and yourself, too," was her answer, slowly spoken, but firm.
He laughed ironically. "That's practical!"
"Does a thing have to be dishonorable and dishonest, to be practical?"
"From your standpoint, yes," he replied. "At this very moment Fosdick is chuckling over the scheme he thinks will surely disgrace me forever! And you are urging me to let him disgrace me. Is that what you call friendship? Is that your idea of 'heart'?"
She flushed, but rejoined undaunted, "You can juggle with your conscience all you please, Horace—just like the other men downtown. But you know the truth, in the bottom of your heart, just as they do. And if you rise by the way you've planned, you know that, when you've risen, you'll do just as he was doing."
"Then," said he, "your test of me is whether I'll let you beg off this old buzzard, Fosdick."
She made a gesture of denial and appeal. "On the contrary, I'd despise a man who did for a woman what he wouldn't do for his own self-respect." She was pale, but all the will in her character was showing itself in her face. "What is Fosdick to me? Now that you've told me about him, I think it's frightful to send men to jail for stealing bread, and leave such a creature at large. But—as to you—" Her bosom was rising and falling swiftly—"as to you, I'm not indifferent. You have stood for strength and courage, for pride—for manliness. I thought you hard and cold—but brave—really brave—too brave to steal, at least from the helpless, or to assassinate even an assassin. Now, I see that you've changed. Your ambition is dragging you down, as ambition always does. And what an ambition! To be the best, the most successful, at cheating the helpless, at robbing the dead!"
As she spoke, his expression of anger faded. When she ended, with unsteady voice and fighting back the tears, he did not attempt to reply. He had made of his face an impassive mask. They were still silent, he standing at the window, she sitting and gazing into the fire, when Molly entered to announce Raphael. He threw his coat over his arm, took up his hat. She searched his face for some indication of his thoughts, but could find none. He simply said, "I'll think it over."