He looked up, and saw that Jim did not speak because he could not. His face was horribly white, and his lips were twitching. And at the sight of him, helpless, and, whatever he had done, suffering horribly, a far greater warmth of pity came over Claude than he had felt hitherto. All his kindness was challenged. And the prompting of the moment was not a mistaken one.
“Oh, I say, old chap,” he said, and stopped short.
For Jim broke. During all those two hideous days he had nerved himself up to encounter abuse, disgust, any form of righteous wrath and contempt. He knew well that Claude had spared him not for his own sake, but for Dora’s, and in this confession he was going to make, he was prepared to be treated as he deserved, though Claude had spared him public disgrace. But what he had not nerved himself up to encounter was kindness, such as that which rang in those few words. And once more, but now not with hysterical laughter, but with the weeping of exhaustion and shame and misery, he buried his head in that same sofa cushion.
Claude felt helpless, awkward, brutal. But it was no use doing anything yet: there was no reaching Jim till that violence had abated, and he sat there waiting, just crossing over once to the door, and bolting it for fear Parker should come in. And at length he laid his hand on Jim’s shoulder.
“It’s knocked you about awfully,” he said. “I can see that, I’m awfully sorry. You must have had a hellish two days. You needn’t tell me, you know.”
Jim pulled himself together, and raised his head.
“That’s just what I must do,” he said. “I forged your cheque.”
“Well, well,” said Claude.
But Jim had got the thing said, and now he went on with suppressed and bitter vehemence.
“I’ve always been a swindler, I think,” he said. “I’m rotten: that’s what the matter with me. I’ve cheated all my life. I can’t even play games without cheating. I cheated you at croquet once, and won a sovereign. Dora saw.”