“I keep on thinking how I jumped down from that damned dog-cart,” said Prothero, without any preface.
“It didn't matter in the least,” said Benham distantly.
“Oh! ROT,” said Prothero. “I behaved like a coward.”
Benham shut his book.
“Benham,” said Prothero. “You are right about aristocracy, and I am wrong. I've been thinking about it night and day.”
Benham betrayed no emotion. But his tone changed. “Billy,” he said, “there are cigarettes and whiskey in the corner. Don't make a fuss about a trifle.”
“No whiskey,” said Billy, and lit a cigarette. “And it isn't a trifle.”
He came to Benham's hearthrug. “That business,” he said, “has changed all my views. No—don't say something polite! I see that if one hasn't the habit of pride one is bound to get off a dogcart when it seems likely to smash. You have the habit of pride, and I haven't. So far as the habit of pride goes, I come over to the theory of aristocracy.”
Benham said nothing, but he put down Sidney and Beatrice Webb, and reached out for and got and lit a cigarette.
“I give up 'Go as you please.' I give up the natural man. I admit training. I perceive I am lax and flabby, unguarded, I funk too much, I eat too much, and I drink too much. And, yet, what I have always liked in you, Benham, is just this—that you don't.”