He shrugged his shoulders and turned from me with disdainful indifference.
"I've done enough for their respect, Frank, and received nothing but hatred. Every man must dree his own weird. Thank Heaven, life's not without compensations. I'm sorry I cannot please you," and he added carelessly, "M——has asked me to go and spend the summer with him at Gland in Switzerland. He does not mind whether I write or not."
"I assure you," I cried, "it is not my pleasure I am thinking about. What can it matter to me whether you write or not? It is your own good I am thinking of."
"Oh, bother good! One's friends like one as one is; the outside public hate one or scoff at one as they please."
"Well, I hope I shall always be your friend," I replied, "but you will yet be forced to see, Oscar, that everyone grows tired of holding up an empty sack."
"Frank, you insult me."
"I don't mean to; I'm sorry; I shall never be so brutally frank again; but you had to hear the truth for once."
"Then, Frank, you only cared for me in so far as I agreed with you?"
"Oh, that's not fair," I replied. "I have tried with all my strength to prevent you committing soul-suicide, but if you are resolved on it, I can't prevent you. I must draw away. I can do no good."
"Then you won't help me for the rest of the winter?"