“I am all attention.”
“I did think, Mr. Grim,” began she, breathing hard, and steadying herself against the table at which she stood, “that you were a very selfish man—an embodiment of selfishness, absolute and supreme, but I did not believe that you were wicked.”
“And what convinced you that I was selfish, if I may ask?”
“What convinced me?” repeated she, in a tone of inexpressible contempt. “When did you ever act from any generous regard for others? What good did you ever do to anybody?”
“You might ask, with equal justice, what good I ever did to myself.”
“In a certain sense, yes; because to gratify a mere momentary wish is hardly doing one’s self good.”
“Then I have, at all events, followed the Biblical precept, and treated my neighbor very much as I treat myself.”
“I did think,” continued Bertha, without heeding the remark, “that you were at bottom kind-hearted, but too hopelessly well-bred ever to commit an act of any decided complexion, either good or bad. Now I see that I have misjudged you, and that you are capable of outraging the most sacred feelings of a woman’s heart in mere wantonness, or for the sake of satisfying a base curiosity, which never could have entered the mind of an upright and generous man.”
The hard, benumbed look in Ralph’s face thawed in the warmth of her presence, and her words, though stern, touched a secret spring in his heart. He made two or three vain attempts to speak, then suddenly broke down, and cried:
“Bertha, Bertha, even if you scorn me, have patience with me, and listen.”