Bertram is silent, unspeakably annoyed, mortified, and distressed. He cannot discuss ethics with a treacherous valet.
“I believed in you, Critchett,” he says, after a pause.
Critchett smiles.
“I know you did, sir; you believe in a lot o’ things as won’t wash.”
“And you feel no remorse for having deceived me?”
“No, sir. Remorse aren’t seen outside the theatres, I think. ’Tis a word, sir. ’Tis only a word.”
Bertram is silent. The cheap cynicism of this man, who has lived beside him during a dozen years, is revolting.
“You are aware I could have you arrested?” he says, after a pause.
“No, sir, you couldn’t,” replies Critchett, calmly. “You’d be giving the lie to all your own theories. Try and look at it philosophic-like, sir.”
Bertram feels a violent longing to call up the policeman now passing by the rails of the Green Park. He puts a five-pound note on the table.