"I know, I know."
Still Spinks hesitated, restraining his ardent embrace of the truth presented to him, held back by some scruple of shy unbelieving modesty.
"Then you think, you really do think, that there isn't any reason why I shouldn't cut in?"
"No, Heaven bless you; no reason in the world, as far as I'm concerned. For God's sake cut in and win; the sooner the better. Now, this minute, if you feel like it."
But still he lingered, for the worst was yet to come. He lingered, nursing a colossal scruple. Poor Spinks's honour was dear to him because it was less the gift of nature than the supreme imitative effort of his adoring heart. He loved honour because Rickman loved it; just as he had loved Flossie for the same reason. These were the only ways in which he could imitate him; and like all imitators he exaggerated the master's manner.
"I say, I don't know what you'll think of me. I said I'd never let on to Flossie that I cared; and I didn't mean to, I didn't on my word. I don't know how it happened; but to-night we got talking—to tell you the truth I thought I was doing my best to get her to make it up with you—"
"Thanks; that was kind," said Rickman in a queer voice which put Spinks off a bit.
"I was really, Razors. I do believe I'd have died rather than let her know how I felt about her; but before I could say knife—"
"She got it out of you?"
"No, she didn't do anything of the sort. It was all me. Like a damn fool I let it out—some'ow."