He could not find his words.
"No, Father, they are not 'all.'... Each of them is different ... and so are we.... Don't talk like that, don't talk of 'men' and 'women.' We are all poor, seeking, straying human beings. Let her seek: that is her life. In seeking, she does fine things, good things ... finer and better things than I.... Here, read her letter: she has written to me from St. Petersburg."
"No, Lot, I will not read her letter. Her place is with her husband, especially when he is ill...."
"She doesn't know that I'm ill. Surely you wouldn't telegraph to her to come over from St. Petersburg, as you came from Brussels, because I've had a touch of fever. Father, don't condemn her...."
"Yes, I do condemn her and I condemn you too, for your cowardice in letting her go, for not being a man and compelling her to stay with you."
Lot clasped his hands:
"Father," he said, gently, "don't speak like that. Don't speak like that. You pain me so.... And I have suffered so much pain as it is: not pain, but sorrow, sorrow!"
A great sob shook his body and he burst into tears.
"My boy, my poor, dear boy!"
"Father, I am not plucky, but I will try to be. And calm. And quiet.... Don't leave me just yet. Mamma is going to England with Hugh. Listen: she will never see Steyn again. He has gone away for good.... Now that she has money, now that she has Hugh, the rest means nothing to her, even I am nothing to her.... Don't leave me. Come with me to Nice, come with me to Italy.... Don't abandon me to my sorrow; but don't let us talk about it either; and please don't condemn Elly again ... if you and I are to remain friends. She does as she is bound to do and she can't do otherwise."