Again he made a little abrupt movement. "You see, I offer no palliation. The one question is simply—do you mean to turn your back on me?"
Anthea looked at him steadily. "No," she said, "I could never do that. Still, must you continue what you are doing? Can't you give it up?"
"Sit down," said Merril quietly, and, rising, drew her a chair. "I think we must understand each other now and altogether. To commence with, I should have liked you to continue to think well of me, though, considering what you are, I knew the thing was hardly likely. Now you have made a discovery that hurts you."
He stopped a moment, and though there had been a certain elusive gentleness in his voice, the girl was sensible that she shrank from him. He was, she realized, without compunction, and had no regret for what he had done. Indeed, his passionless quietness conveyed the impression that some of the usual attributes of humanity had been left out of him. A trace of confusion or anger would have appeared more natural, and invective would have been easier to bear than this suggestive tranquillity.
"Well," he said, "you asked a very natural question. What I am doing—my view of life, in fact—displeases you. You ask, can't I give it up? I ask why? Can you offer me any reason?"
Anthea said nothing. Reasons occurred to her, but they were rather felt than concretely formulated, and, as she realized, would suffer from being forced into shallow and inadequate expression. She also naturally shrank from an unsuccessful attempt to play the teacher to her father, and had sense enough to know that trite maxims and virtuous platitudes would have very small effect on such a man. It was, perhaps, not an unusual feeling in one respect, for the deep optimistic faith of the wise cannot be rashly formulated without its suffering in the process. It is, as a rule, the people with shallow beliefs who have the ready tongues, and the result of their well-meaning efforts is seldom the one they desire. Anthea, at least, recognized her disabilities, and kept silence. She also saw that her father understood her, for he nodded.
"It is clear that you are not a fool," he said. "If you had been, the thing would have been easier for both of us. I allowed you to be brought up in the conventional morality, knowing that you would grow above what was spurious in it, and cling to what you felt was real. If you felt that, it would be sufficient for you. Still, that morality was never mine. I had to face life as I found it, without the money that might have made it easier to regard it virtuously, and scruples would have insufferably handicapped me. As a matter of fact, I do not think I ever had any. This existence is a struggle, as no doubt you have heard often without realizing it, and it is the strong and cunning who get out of it what is worth having. That, at least, is my point of view. It may be the wrong one, but I am satisfied with it, and, what is more to the purpose, quite content to leave you yours."
He broke off once more, and smiled before he went on. "We have done with that subject. I would not influence you against your belief—which is the prettier one—if I could, and I do not think you could influence me. In fact, one feels diffident about having said so much. Well, it is the days to come we have to consider. I am not likely to change my code, and you do not wish to leave me?"
Again, for just a moment, the faint tenderness crept into his voice, and the girl's nature stirred in answer.
"No," she said, "there is nothing that could make me wish to do that."