Ralph listened, pale with anger and grinding his teeth.
He muttered. “My mother was unhappy and humiliated. I wished to set her free.”
“By thieving?”
“I was six years old,” he protested.
“To-day you’re twenty; your mother is dead; you’re robust, intelligent, and overflowing with energy. How do you make a living?”
“I work!” he snapped.
“Yes: in other people’s pockets.”
She gave him no time to deny it.
“You needn’t say anything, Ralph,” she went on quickly. “I know your life down to the last details. And I could tell you things about yourself that would astonish you, things that happened this year, and things that happened years ago. For I’ve been following your career for a very long time and the things I should tell you would certainly not be a bit more pleasant hearing than the things you heard not so very long ago at the inn. Detectives? Policemen? Inquiries? Prosecutions?... You’ve been perfectly well acquainted with them, quite as well acquainted with them as I am, and you’re not twenty! Is it really worth while for us to reproach one another? Hardly. Since I know your life and since chance has uncovered for you a corner of mine, let us throw a veil over both. The act of theft is not a pretty one. Let us turn away our eyes and say nothing about it.”
He remained silent. A great weariness invaded him. All at once he saw existence in a gloomy and depressing light in which nothing any longer had color, nothing beauty or graciousness. He could have wept.