“Follow me,” he said.
Glyde also rose to his feet, and, as if he was giddy, looked blankly about him. “O God, what have I done? O God, what am I?” He dashed his hand over his eyes. “I can't see. I suppose I never could.” He turned upon Senhouse. “You! Why do you harbour such a rat as I?”
Senhouse gave him pitiful eyes. “If you think yourself a rat, you are in the way to be more. Come, we will be friends yet. You're near the end of your tether, I think. Let me tuck you into a blanket.”
III
In the morning Glyde, in a humble mood, drank quantities of small beer. In other words, he told his story of Sanchia, of Ingram, and of Mrs. Wilmot. He was so steered by questions from Senhouse that he came, towards the end, to see that if any one had driven his mistress into a life of bondage to Ingram it was himself and his presumptuous arm.
“You must have offended her beyond expression,” he was told. “First, her fine esteem in her own spotless robe, which you have smeared with beastly blood and heat; next, her sense of reason clear as day; next, and worst, her logical faculty by which she sees it to be a law of the earth that nothing can be bought without a price. Oh, you precious young donkey! And who the mischief are you, pray, to meddle in the affairs of high ladies—you who can't manage your own better than to do with your foolish muscles what is the work of a man's heart? Love! You don't know how to spell the word. But I am getting angry again, and I don't want to do that. I'll tell you what I shall do with you. You shall stay with me here till you are well, and then you shall go to London and find Despoina—”
“Do you mean Sanchia?” Glyde was still unregenerate at heart.
“I mean whom I say, your mistress and mine. You are not fit to name her by any other name.”