“If you weren’t who you are and what you are,” retorted Panoukian sharply, “I should knock you down.”
To that Old Mole could not find the apt reply, and once again, ruefully, he was forced to see that he had been betrayed into an absurdity. In that moment he hated Panoukian more than anyone he had ever known. He had been whirled by the unexpectedness of Panoukian into throwing away his one flawless weapon, his dignity, and without it he was powerless. Without it he could not even draw on the prescribed attitudes and remedies for gentlemen in his position. All the same he was thoroughly pleased to have caused Panoukian pain, and hoped he would be forced to take his meals from the mantelpiece for a day or two.
They stood glaring at each other, both wondering what would happen next. Panoukian retired gracefully from the conflict by stooping to pick up the puppy. Old Mole snorted, grabbed his hat, and stumped away and out of the chamber.
The callousness of Panoukian! The effrontery! That he should dare to show his face, and such an unabashed, innocent face! Where was that conscience which makes cowards of us all? . . . At any rate, thought Old Mole, after being kicked Panoukian would not venture to appear again. But was that so sure? Was it so certain that his unpremeditated act of violence would jolt Panoukian’s conscience into activity? Having swallowed the indignity of his position, would he not the more easily be able to digest affront and insult and humiliation? How if the kick had not settled the affair Panoukian?
From his own uneasiness and almost shame Old Mole knew that it had not, that possibly it might have only the effect of crystallizing the change of relation between himself and Panoukian, of obliterating the tie of affection, of equalizing matters, of slackening the rein on Panoukian, of releasing him from every other claim upon his affection, except the violent outpouring of love which had swept him into disregard for convention, and honor, and the cause of morality. If there be degradation in violence, it affects the kicker as well as the kicked. Old Mole found himself very near understanding Panoukian. Clearly he had come to the chambers on an impulse. Matilda had desired a dog, he had seen the very dog, and come racing with it. Encountering Old Mole for the first time since the eruption in their affairs, he had carried the scene through with an admirable candor. There was no shiftiness in him, nor slyness: that would have been horrible, the sure indication of a beastly intrigue. No: either Panoukian was so possessed by his emotions, by the joy of what was probably his first full affair of the heart, that he could give no thought either to his own position or Matilda’s or her husband’s; either that or he was so intent on his passion, so absorbed by it, as to be lifted beyond scruples or thought of impediment, and was tearing away like a bolting horse, regardless of the cart behind or the cart’s occupants. In either case Old Mole felt that he had something definite to deal with, genuine feeling and no farded copy of it. And he felt sorry for the kick and wished he could withdraw it.
The very next day Panoukian came to dinner at half-past six. Matilda brought him. They had met by chance in the Strand, and she had persuaded him to come back with her.
The meal was to all appearances like hundreds of others they three had had together. Old Mole sat at the head of the table, with Matilda on one side of him, Panoukian on the other, and he watched them. They did not watch him. They grinned at each other like happy children, and made absurd jokes and teased, and their most ordinary remarks seemed to have a secret and profound meaning for them. Sometimes they explained their references to Old Mole, and then it was always “We”—Panoukian said: “We,” Matilda: “Arthur and I” . . . and beneath all their talk there seemed to be a game, but a game in all seriousness, of fitting their personalities together. Every now and then, when they were filled with a bubbling consciousness of their wealth, they would throw a scrap to Old Mole out of sheer lavishness and babyish generosity. But other thought for or of him they had obviously none. They were not embarrassed by his presence, nor, to his amazement, was he by theirs. Only he was distressed, when they threw him a scrap of their happiness, to find that he knew not what to do with it, and could only put it away for analysis.
“I analyze and analyze,” he thought, “and there are they with the true gold in their hands, hardly knowing it for precious metal.”
Oh, yes! They were in love, and they had no right to be in love, and it was his duty to put an end to it.
But how?