“Stay, of course.”
I, studying the end of my cigar, waited, feeling his defiant glance on me.
“Shocked?”
“Why?”
“You always were sanctimonious when it was a question of doing things openly.”
“I haven’t come here to quarrel,” I said, smiling. His characterization at the moment struck me as grotesque. So far, we had barely skimmed the surface of things, and I felt the underlying hostility of his attitude. Resolving to take the bull by the horns, I said:
“Alan, before we bury the past, as I hope we’ll do, I want to tell you that I blame myself. I was unjust; we were all unjust to you. I regret it with all my heart.”
He stared at me, as a man grudging to relinquish his advantage.
“What good will that do—now?”