The reserves I had spoken of were not, however, to fail her. "I thought you just said that you let my inconsistency go."
"Your moral responsibility for it—perfectly. But how can I show a greater indulgence than by positively desiring to enter into its history? It's in that sense that, as I say," I developed, "I do speak of your change. There must have been a given moment when the need of it—or when, in other words, the truth of my personal state—dawned upon you. That moment is the key to your whole position—the moment for us to fix."
"Fix it," said poor Mrs. Briss, "when you like!"
"I had much rather," I protested, "fix it when you like. I want—you surely must understand if I want anything of it at all—to get it absolutely right." Then as this plea seemed still not to move her, I once more compressed my palms. "You won't help me?"
She bridled at last with a higher toss. "It wasn't with such views I came. I don't believe," she went on a shade more patiently, "I don't believe—if you want to know the reason—that you're really sincere."
Here indeed was an affair. "Not sincere—I?"
"Not properly honest. I mean in giving up."
"Giving up what?"
"Why, everything."
"Everything? Is it a question"—I stared—"of that?"