“But won’t you give me your hand?”
“No. Not until you are good.”
“And then?”
“Then—perhaps.”
Quentin left the room with lowered head.
He sat at his window for many hours, smoking.
The night was clear, cool, and soft. The moon silvered the distant hills; a nightingale sang softly in the darkness. A flood of thoughts crowded Quentin’s brain.
“Conscience,” he said to himself, “conscience is a weakness. What is honesty? Something mechanical. For a woman it is the certainty of living with the mate provided by the Church; for a man, the proof that the money he owns was won by methods not included in books. But another, a higher honesty, such as that girl wants; is it not madness in a world where no one concerns himself with it? This girl has completely upset me.”
Quentin felt a strong desire to weep at the thought of having been so near happiness. He might have deceived Remedios.... No, he could not have deceived her.... Then he would not have been happy. As he thought, the full moon was climbing the heavens; its light, filtering through the leaves of a grape-vine, made beautiful little lace patterns on the ground. He could hear the continuous tinkling of the bells on the goats and cows; now and then there came to him the distant sound of footsteps and voices, the whispering of the wind in the foliage, the lowing of oxen, the neighing of horses and the knocking of the cows’ horns against the corral fence.
Suddenly Quentin made up his mind. He must go. It was necessary. He left his room, descended the stairs noiselessly, and made his way to the stable. He lit a lantern, saddled his horse, put on the bridle, and taking the animal by the bit, led him into the patio. He opened the wooden gate and followed the fence until he came to the road.