‘Quite so. I admire your attitude. Such things are entirely unfit for repetition. But seriously, now, what on earth do you expect to happen when you tell her? I’m perfectly certain that every single volunteer she’s got is just as great a blackguard—your word, my dear fellow—as I am, and Finola knows it perfectly well.’
Hyacinth hesitated. The phrase in Miss Goold’s letter in which she had originally described her men as blackguards recurred to his mind. He remembered the story of Doherty. His anger began to give way to a sick feeling of disgust.
‘Think, now,’ said the Captain: ‘is it likely that you could enlist a corps of Sunday-school teachers for this kind of work? I’ll give you credit for the highest motives, though I’m blest if I understand them; but how can you suppose that there is anyone else in the whole world that feels the way you feel or wants to act as you are doing?’
‘I dare say you are right,’ said Hyacinth feebly.
‘Of course I’m right—perfectly right.’
Hyacinth tried to lift his glass of whisky-and-water to his lips, but his hand trembled, and he was obliged to put it down. Captain Quinn watched him wipe the spilt liquid off his hand, and then settle down in his chair with his head bowed and his eyes half shut.
‘Sit up, man,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, at all events. But look here, you ought not to come with us at all. It’s no job for a man like you. You back out of it. Don’t turn up to-morrow morning. I’ll explain to Finola if she’s there, and if not I’ll write her a letter that will set you straight with her. I’m really sorry for you, Conneally.’
Hyacinth looked up at him.
‘I’m sorry I called you a blackguard,’ he said. ‘You’re not any worse than everyone else in the world.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Captain Quinn. ‘Don’t take it like that. From your point of view you were quite right to call me a blackguard. And, mind you, there are plenty of people in the world who aren’t blackguards. There’s my brother, for instance. He’s a bit of a prig—in fact, he’s as priggish as he well can be—but he’s never done anything but run straight. I don’t suppose he could go crooked if he tried.’