"What a depressing theory!" exclaimed Batiscombe, who had much more cause to think so than Leonora.
"Depressing is no name for it," she answered. "One makes such mistakes in life, and then there is no way out of it but to make others."
"And the worst of it is, that one knows one is making them, and cannot help it."
"Yes," said she, "one always knows,—if one only knew." Then she laughed suddenly. "What a ridiculous speech!"
"No," said Batiscombe, "I understand exactly what you mean. Just when one is doing the wrong thing, there is always a little instinct against it. But it is often so very little, that one does not quite know it from ever so many other instincts. And then, before one is quite sure that one knows what is right,—before one's mind has time to think it over logically,—one has done the wrong thing. At least, it seems afterwards as if that were what happened; but I suppose it is because we are weak."
Leonora looked at Julius, who seemed deep in his thoughts. He had exactly put her idea into words, but she could not tell whether he believed what he said, or was merely amusing himself with his faculty for explanation. He interested her extremely. It was just this kind of introspection that most delighted her,—this cutting up and skinning of conscience and soul. Nevertheless she did not think that Batiscombe was the man to analyse his own actions. It was more likely, she thought, that he was very clever, and could talk to please his listener. But he interested her greatly, and she was curious to know how he had got his knowledge of human nature.
"You must have had a wonderful life," she said, presently, saying aloud what she was thinking, rather than hoping to draw him on to talk about himself.
"Oh no—very commonplace, I assure you," said he, with a laugh that sounded natural enough. "Only, you see, I have had to make capital of what I know. But it spoils one's own enjoyment to analyse anything, and I shall have to give it up, or resign myself to a miserable existence."
"I wonder whether you are right," said Leonora, reflectively.
"Of course I am," he answered gayly. "The man who carves the pheasant does not enjoy it, but the man who eats it does."