“Because you are allowing yourself to be made miserable by a most trivial event.”
“You call it trivial that the whole world should think me a man of immoral mind?”
“The whole world? Why, the world doesn’t trouble itself about the matter in the least. Only one man accuses you of immoral writings; that man is the editor of the paper. What on earth does his opinion matter to you?”
“But his opinion will be widely read and will be widely believed.”
“Will be believed, you should have added, by people who allow another man to form their opinions for them. What do they matter?”
He sighed.
“But they do matter,” said he, rather forlornly. “I hate to think of people out there”—he waved a vague arm in the direction of the kitchen garden—“thinking evil thoughts and saying evil things of me.”
“‘They say. What do they say? Let them say,’” I quoted.
We paced up and down the terrace, his eyes fixed on the ground. At length:
“I wonder what you would think of the chapter in question,” he said musingly. “You have read the story as far as it has been printed. Well, I will give you the final chapters to read.”