"She doesn't want anything except what I can't give her, thanks to you and myself—the love of a decent man."
"I see. When we meet the woman we wish we'd sowed fewer wild oats. I went through that myself once. She was a white lily sort of girl and I—well, I'd gone the pace long before I met her. I wasn't fit to touch her and I knew it. I went down fast after that—nothing to keep me back. Old Shakespeare says something somewhere about our pleasant vices beings whips to goad us with. You and I can understand that, Alan Massey. We've both felt the lash."
Alan made an impatient gesture. He did not care to be lumped with this rotten piece of flesh lying there before him.
"I suppose you are wondering what my next move is," went on Roberts.
"I don't care."
"Oh yes, you do. You care a good deal. I can break you, Alan Massey, and you know it."
"Go ahead and break and be damned if you choose," raged Alan.
"Exactly. As I choose. And I can keep you dancing on some mighty hot gridirons before I shuffle off. Don't forget that, Alan Massey. And there will be several months to dance yet, if the doctors aren't off their count."
"Suit yourself. Don't hurry about dying on my account," said Alan with ironical courtesy.
A few moments later he was on his way back to the station. His universe reeled. All he was sure was that he loved Tony Holiday and would fight to the last ditch to win and keep her and that she would be in his arms to-night for perhaps the last time. The rest was a hideous blur.