Donnegan smiled.
"She's a devil of a girl," admitted Henry Reardon. "But this is beside the point: which is, that you're sticking on a matter that means everything to me, and which is only a secondhand interest to you—a point of sentiment. You pity the girl. What's pity? Bah! I pity a dog in the street, but would I cross you, Garry, lad, to save the dog? Sentiment, I say, silly sentiment."
Donnegan rose.
"It was a silly sentiment," he said hoarsely, "that put me on the road following you, Henry. It was a silly sentiment that turned me into a wastrel, a wanderer, a man without a home and without friends."
"It's wrong to throw that in my face," muttered Lord Nick.
"It is. And I'm sorry for it. But I want you to see that matters of sentiment may be matters of life and death with me."
"Aye, if it were for you it would be different. I might see my way clear—but for a girl you have only a distant interest in—"
"It is a matter of whether or not her heart shall be broken."
"Come, come. Let's talk man talk. Besides, girls' hearts don't break in this country. You're old-fashioned."
"I tell you the question of her happiness is worth more than a dozen lives like yours and mine."