"Positively, I was glad to hear the crash. 'Very well,' I said, 'I am a thief, since it pleases you to think so.' Thieves at least are a more interesting society, and I have found them so, Lawton, not only more interesting, but more honest."
But somehow there was no ring of conviction to his words. His voice seemed unable to assume its old cynicism, and his face had lost its former placidity. It had suddenly become old and careworn. Pain and regret, sharp and poignant, were reflected there. His eyes seemed strained and tired, the corners of his mouth had drooped, and his body too was less erect and resolute. Something had been broken. For a moment, his mask and his mantle had dropped where he could not find them. And then, as he stood looking ahead of him at the shadows, he ended his speech in a way that had no logic and no relation to the rest.
"If she had only said she did not believe them—Why did she not say it?"
And then he squared his shoulders and tried again to smile.
"But what difference does it make now? The road has turned too long ago for us to face about."
"She never spoke to me, never looked at me again!" repeated Mr. Lawton.
My father's fist crashed down on the table, but when he spoke his words were precise and devoid of all emotion.
"And why the devil should she," he answered. "We are not questioning her taste. And you, Jason," he added. "No one will doubt your word, or believe this little romance. Do you wonder why? They will never have the opportunity. Brutus, take them down to the boat."
Brutus stepped forward and laid a hand on my uncle's shoulder. He shrank back.
"George," he cried, "you shall have the money. I swear it, George. I have wronged you, but—"