"You do, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Equally?"
"Roughly so, I daresay." I went on, taking advantage of her silence: "Look here, I'll tell you frankly what I think about Geoffrey. He irritates me by his calmness just as much as he irritates you, but I try to look behind it all, and there I see a stoicism that bears his own misfortune just as bravely as he expects other people to bear theirs."
"That's very nicely put."
"It's true. Do you suppose the man's happy, chained to a chair for the rest of his life? Can't you forgive him his delight at the prospect of once again playing his little piece under the limelight? Maybe it isn't what you or I would crave for, but still, he wants it badly enough, and what right have we to be so confoundedly superior about it? He's a pagan, frank and unashamed, and we're pagans, maybe, with the cloak of hypocrisy thrown over us."
"You're getting quite eloquent."
"If I am, it's because I feel what I say. I like Geoffrey, and I'm damned sorry for him. I don't know which of the two I'm sorrier for—him or Terry. And especially after the letter I had from him last night.... He's going to put up the biggest fight he can on Terry's behalf, and if he can manage to enjoy himself at the same time, I for one am very glad.... Anyhow, here's the letter—you can read it if you'd care to. It may, of course, strike you as something absolutely diabolical and callous, but I think it's rather pathetic."
She read it slowly, and then deliberately tore it twice across and dropped the pieces on to the floor. "That," she said, with deadly quietness, "is what I think of it.... And now, if you've quite finished defending a man who's well able to defend himself, perhaps you'll tell me what's going to happen to Terry?"
III