“Yes, that you are—too serious. What’s the matter, Despard, for that there is something the matter I am convinced?”
He did not attempt to deny it.
“Yes, Madeline,” he said slowly, “I’m altogether upset. I’ve been false to all my own theories. I’ve been a selfish enough brute always, I know, but at least I think I’ve been consistent. I’ve chosen my own line, and lived the life, and among the people that suited me, and—”
“Been dreadfully, miserably spoilt, Despard.”
He glanced up at her sharply. No, she was not smiling. His face clouded over still more.
“And that’s the best even you can say of me?” he asked.
Mrs Selby hardly let him finish.
“No, no. I am blaming myself more than you,” she said quickly. “You are much—much better than you know, Despard. You are not selfish really. Think of what you have done for others; how consistently you have given up those evenings to that night school.”
“One a week—what’s that? And there’s no credit in doing a thing one likes. I enjoy those evenings, and it’s more than I can say for the average of my days.”
But his face cleared a very little as he spoke.