"Then I can only guess." Brower looked at him, with a studious anxiety in his brown eyes. "He made a mistake, sure enough, but I think he sets it right. Yes, I think he sets it right." Ogden's eyes sought the floor.
"Ho; he abides by it."
"He can set it right," said Brower, gravely; "and if he can he ought."'
"Not now; not after—everything. Let bad enough alone."
"Make bad enough better," cried Brower. "Is he the only one to be considered? Upon my word," he went on, with a nervous attempt at lightness, "we are getting these great truths down finer and finer. A couple of years ago we agreed that marriage concerned but two people; now we are finding that it concerns only one. The question simply is—which one?"
"The one who would be most exposed to injury," said Ogden, with a distant mournfulness in his face and voice.
"There are different kinds of injury; there is the injury of commission, and there is the injury of omission. Sometimes the last is harder—on a woman. Why not let the victim choose her own particular woe? Why not be generous enough to give her an opportunity?"
"Not now," groaned Ogden. "You don't know. Not after all—that's happened."
"Well, then," continued Brower, with kindly perseverance, "out goes generosity. Now bring in selfishness and give that a chance. What is our hero going to do? Must there be more sorrow for him, more suffering, more self-punishment, and everlasting dissatisfaction generally? What is he made of? Can he stand it? If so, how long? And if he does, why should he?"
"Brower, Brower!" Ogden cried; "not another word if you care for me—if you care anything at all for me!" He crossed his arms on the table and bowed his head upon them.