"But how?"
"Not even to you dare I tell that, my friend. There are bounds, even to my trustfulness. But do not fear; it shall be sure, even if it is slow in coming."
"But, Leicester, you used to be a man. Even although you were cynical, and laughed at women's virtue, you were in your own way honourable, and chivalrous."
"Honour! Chivalry! I bade them good-bye years ago. Work with a gang of Arab ruffians for two years, as I have done, and where would your honour and chivalry be?"
"But you did that of your own accord. She did not rob you of your fortune, or your liberty, or your life."
"She robbed me of hope, of faith—of all that from your standpoint makes life worth the living. Yes, I know, I was a slave to drink; I know. Perhaps I inherited the taste for it. I was an unbeliever, I laughed at standard morality—yes, all that. But I was still a man, Winfield. She had it in her power to make me even a good man. But when—she did what she did, she robbed me of everything—everything. I ceased to be a man; I became a devil. But for her I should never have sunk to the depths I have sunk to since. When she went out of my life, the devil entered me. Man, if I were to tell you all I've gone through since—I saw you last, you'd—but what's the use?"
For an hour more they talked, Winfield eagerly expostulating, and pleading, the other answering coldly and cruelly, but never raising his voice, or showing any signs of excitement.
"Then you are determined?" said Winfield at length.
"My friend, I never make a plan one day to give it up the next."
"Then you'll excuse me, I am sure."