He realised suddenly the whimsicality of the position in which he was momentarily placed—the position of defending himself from the charge of refusing to continue a criminal existence. The thought won a smile from his lips.
"You cannot tell me?" said Hora. "Have you considered thoroughly?" He stepped forward and laid his hand on the young man's arm. "Have you considered what such a decision would mean to me, Guy? I am getting on in years. You have always been with me. I might go far to meet your wishes, even to the extent of abandoning my profession, if I could keep you with me."
"It would not be enough." Guy's answer was stern and hard.
Hora was startled by the tone. "What more can you require?" he asked.
"What more?" said Guy bitterly. "What more?" His face flushed and he held up his hand. "Atonement," he replied, "atonement for the past."
There was accusation in Guy's tone, and Hora shrank under it, but he rallied his wits. "Why so melodramatic?" he sneered.
"Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous in your ears," he answered, "but I see no other way of regaining my own self-esteem." He turned fiercely on Hora. "Why did you bring me up differently from other boys? Why did you, day by day, week by week, and year by year, instil into my ears your lying philosophy? Why did you make your son a thief—a thief?"
All the concentrated bitterness of Guy's musings was infused into the concluding words. Hora's lips grew pale and his hands trembled as he listened. He recognised the emotion from which Guy suffered by the memory of his own experience when he had himself been branded in the light of day and the sight of all men. Still he strove to meet the point of view.
"I thought you had learned to place their true value upon conventional terms," he remarked.
"I have," said Guy, more bitterly than before. "I have learned that a thief is a thief whatever sophistry may be used to throw a glamour of romance over his actions."