“I don’t release you,” persisted Richling; “neither does Mary.”
The Doctor was quiet awhile before he answered. He crossed his knees, a moment after folded his arms, and presently said:—
“Foolish pride, Richling.”
“We know that,” replied Richling; “we don’t deny that that feeling creeps in. But we’d never do anything that’s right if we waited for an unmixed motive, would we?”
“Then you think my motive—in refusing it—is mixed, probably.”
“Ho-o-oh!” laughed Richling. The gladness within him would break through. “Why, Doctor, nothing could be more different. It doesn’t seem to me as though you ever had a mixed motive.”
The Doctor did not answer. He seemed to think the same thing.
“We know very well, Doctor, that if we should accept this kindness we might do it in a spirit of proper and commendable—a—humble-mindedness. But it isn’t mere pride that makes us insist.”
“No?” asked the Doctor, cruelly. “What is it else?”
“Why, I hardly know what to call it, except that it’s a conviction that—well, that to pay is best; that it’s the nearest to justice we can get, and that”—he spoke faster—“that it’s simply duty to choose justice when we can and mercy when we must. There, I’ve hit it out!” He laughed again. “Don’t you see, Doctor? Justice when we may—mercy when we must! It’s your own principles!”