“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “you are right, of course. I wouldn’t go back even five years.”
“Who would?” he questioned triumphantly; “which proves my point perfectly. The world doesn’t believe its own nonsense; and that’s a text for an enormous arraignment of the world in all its beliefs. The credo is the act, not the pious patter of the mouth. What a man does, that is his belief, whether he knows it or not.... Don’t you think you’d better close your eyes and take a little nap? You look knocked out; has anything happened?”
She opened her eyes resolutely. “Go on,” she said, without answering his question. (“Ah!” he said to himself, “something has happened,” but he gave no sign.) “Go on. I’ve often thought that thought. It’s not what you say about yourself; it’s what you do that tells the story. That’s very true. Very true.”
What she was thinking—and some inkling of it was in her voice—was that this young man was really interested in chattering with her; that Geraldine often protested interest, but her neglect was the truth; that her boy Walter had never expressed either dislike or affection for her, but his act in striking her in public was eloquent. Richard sensed a specific application but, naturally, he could not apply it exactly. So he went on cheerfully:
“I’ve spent many delightful hours writing out the creeds of various men. I’ve followed them to their churches and into their businesses and, sometimes, into their homes. This man who professes Christian humility openly, who begs the world to turn the other cheek, to forgive seventy times seven, who cries out that the meek shall be blessed and shall inherit the earth—oh, it is great fun to judge him by his deeds. Arrogance and self-sufficiency rule him. He is merciless to wife, child and employee. It takes a destructive and criminal strike to squeeze decent wages from him. He links himself with corrupt politicians for personal gain. He connives at shady legislation. Oh, he is meek—in after-dinner speeches and in addresses before the Sunday school—and verily he well-nigh inherits the earth!... And I have seen rough-spoken men whose acts are the heart of humility.”
“Your arrogant man,” Mrs. Wells took up the discussion, “I am interested in him. I am an arrogant person myself, and I’m often sorry.... Within the past hour I have been arrogant, and I am suffering for it.”
Richard said nothing. Instinctively he knew she would tell him, if it were proper for him to know.
She continued after a moment’s pause, “Could not your arrogant man be sincere in all his professions; fool himself, as it were?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. That is the interesting thing to me. I’m an onlooker merely. I do not condemn. I condemn nothing. Sincere? Undoubtedly. But sincerity is no great virtue. Every persistent burglar is sincere. He has no pricks of conscience. Question him—as I have done—and he justifies himself every time. Sincerity is the cheapest possession, and the world values it too highly. The Spanish inquisitors were sincere; so were the scalping Indians; and Boss Tweed. And so were Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth. So is the devil, for that matter.”
She laughed weakly. A little more colour came back into her face.