"Well—" He pondered again. "If you want to get down to the root of it, it's as simple as hunger and thirst."
"Hunger and thirst," she murmured.
"It's what I've been trying to tell you. When you're not thirsty you don't think about drinking. When you are thirsty, you do. When you're driven mad with thirst, you think of nothing else. And sometimes—not always—when you can't get clean water, you drink water that's—not so clean. Though you may be very particular. Walter was—morally—the most particular man I ever knew."
"I know. I know."
"Mind you, the more particular a man is, the thirstier he'll be. And supposing he can never get a drop of water at home, and every time he goes out, some kind person offers him a drink—can you blame him very much if, some day, he takes it?"
"No," she said. She said it very low, and turned her face from him.
"Look here, Mrs. Majendie," he said, "you know why I'm saying all this."
"To help me," she said humbly.
"And to help him. Neither you nor I know whether he's going to live or die. And I've told you all this so that, if he does die, you mayn't have to judge him harshly, and if he doesn't die, you may feel that he's—he's given back to you. D'you see?"
"Yes, I see," she said softly.