“Open the window,” she said, “I am stifling.”
He got up and threw open the window away from the street. Then he walked over to the chimney piece and leaned his elbows on it, with his back to her.
At first Dora felt nothing but hard anger and indignation, and she knew that if she spoke at all it would be to say something which could do no good, and perhaps only make a breach between them that could never be healed.
And it was long that she waited, it was long before any spark of pity for him was lit. Then she spoke.
“Oh, Jim, what a miserable business!” she said. “But why did you tell me? Couldn’t you have spared me knowing? Or perhaps you were afraid Claude would tell me.”
“No; I don’t tell you for that reason,” he said. “After I saw Claude this morning, I knew he would never tell you.”
“Why, then?”
“Because I want to tell you about Claude. It may do some good. Well, Claude’s treated me in a way that’s beyond my understanding. He is beyond your understanding, too, at present, and that’s why I am telling you. I wish you could have been here when I told him. He was only sorry for me. If he was God, he couldn’t have been more merciful. And it wasn’t put on. He felt it; and I wanted, for once, to see if I couldn’t be of some use.”
He turned round and faced her.
“I want you to know what sort of a fellow Claude really is,” he said. “I know you don’t get on well, and that’s because you don’t know him. You judged him first by his face—that, and perhaps a little bit by his wealth. And then you judged him by what you and I call vulgarity and want of breeding. That’s not Claude either. Claude’s the fellow who treated a swindler and a forger in the way I’ve told you. He’s got a soul that’s more beautiful than his face, you know, and he’s the handsomest fellow I ever saw. I wanted you to get a glimpse of it. It might help things. That’s all I’ve got to say. I’m sorry for giving you the pain of knowing what I’ve done, but I thought it might do good. He’s just broken me up with his goodness. That’s Claude.”