"Not yet perhaps. I haven't quite reached that stage. Maybe I shall be down and out before it comes. God grant it!"
The words were too deliberate to cause her any shock. They were, moreover, not wholly unexpected. There followed a short silence while she finished arranging her violets. Then very quietly she spoke:
"You say that because you are tired."
"I am more than tired," he answered. "I'm done. I'm beaten. I'm whipped off the field."
"You think you are not gaining ground?" she questioned.
"My dear Lady Carfax," he said quietly, "it's no use closing one's eyes to the obvious. I'm losing ground every day—every night."
"But you are not fighting," she said.
"No." He looked at her half-wistfully from under his heavy eyelids. "Do you think me quite despicable? I've done my best."
She was silent. Perhaps she was not fully prepared to cope with this open admission of failure.
"I've done my best," he said again. "But it's outlasted my strength. I'm like a man hanging on to the edge of a precipice. I know every instant that my grip is slackening, and I can't help it. I've got to drop."