A man’s professional honour is a very delicate thing. David had never held his lightly. If he had violated it, he had done so because there were great things in the balance. Mary’s happiness, Mary’s future, Mary’s life. He had betrayed a trust because Mary asked it of him and because there was so much in the balance. And it had all been illusion. There had been no risk—no danger. Nothing but an old man’s last and cruelest jest. And he, David, had been the old man’s dupe. A furious anger surged in him. For nothing, it was all for nothing. He had wrenched himself for nothing, forfeited his self-respect for nothing, sold his honour for nothing. Mary had bidden him, and he had done her bidding, and it was all for nothing. A little bleak sunlight came in at the window and showed the worn patches upon the carpet. David could remember that old brown carpet for as long as he could remember anything. It had been in his father’s consulting room. The writing-table had been there too. The room was full of memories of William Blake. Old familiar words and looks came back to David as he sat there. He remembered many little things, and, as he remembered, he despised himself very bitterly. As the moments passed, so his self-contempt grew, until it became unbearable. He rose, pushing his chair so that it fell over with a crash, and went into the dining-room.
Half an hour later Sarah put her head round the corner of the door and announced, “Mr. Edward Mottisfont in the consulting room, sir.” David Blake was sitting at the round table with a decanter in front of him. He got up with a short laugh and went to Edward.
Edward presented a ruffled but resigned appearance. He was agitated, but beneath the agitation there was plainly evident a trace of melancholy triumph.
“I’ve had a letter,” he began. David stood facing him.
“So have I,” he said.
Edward’s wave of the hand dismissed as irrelevant all letters except his own. “But mine—mine was from my uncle,” he exclaimed.
“Exactly. He was obliging enough to send me a copy.”
“You—you know,” said Edward. Then he searched his pockets, and ultimately produced a folded letter.
“You’ve had a letter like this? He’s told you? You know?”
“That he’s played us the dirtiest trick on record? Yes, thanks, Edward, I’ve been enjoying the knowledge for the best part of an hour.”