The place chosen was a little hostel, frequented by racing men, and famed for the excellence of its steaks. And as they sat down opposite each other in the almost empty room, Miltoun thought: Yes, he does know! Can I stand any more of this? He waited almost savagely for the attack he felt was coming.
“So you are going to give up your seat?” said Courtier.
Miltoun looked at him for some seconds, before replying.
“From what town-crier did you hear that?”
But there was that in Courtier's face which checked his anger; its friendliness was transparent.
“I am about her only friend,” Courtier proceeded earnestly; “and this is my last chance—to say nothing of my feeling towards you, which, believe me, is very cordial.”
“Go on, then,” Miltoun muttered.
“Forgive me for putting it bluntly. Have you considered what her position was before she met you?”
Miltoun felt the blood rushing to his face, but he sat still, clenching his nails into the palms of his hands.
“Yes, yes,” said Courtier, “but that attitude of mind—you used to have it yourself—which decrees either living death, or spiritual adultery to women, makes my blood boil. You can't deny that those were the alternatives, and I say you had the right fundamentally to protest against them, not only in words but deeds. You did protest, I know; but this present decision of yours is a climb down, as much as to say that your protest was wrong.”