"I wish to goodness I could do the same for him."
"Why do you say that, Charlie?"
The prodigal became visibly embarrassed. He seemed to be considering the propriety of a perfect frankness.
"I say, you don't mind my asking, do you? Has anything gone wrong with him and Mrs. Majendie?"
"What makes you think so?"
"Well, you see, I've got a sort of notion that she doesn't understand him. She's never realised in the least the stuff he's made of. He's the finest man I know on God's earth, and somehow, it strikes me that she doesn't see it."
"Not always, I'm afraid."
"Well—see here—you'll tell her, won't you, what he's done for me? That ought to open her eyes a bit. You can give me away as much as ever you like, if you want to rub it in. Only tell her that I've chucked it—chucked it for good. He's made me loathe myself. Tell her that I'm not as bad as she thinks me, but that I probably would be if it hadn't been for him. And you, Edie, only I'm going to leave you out of it."
"You certainly may."
"It's because she knows all that already; and the point is to get her to appreciate him."