“You’re inflexible.”
“Yes. But I’m inflexible with myself as well. You’re in a difficult position. You married a man a year ago,—a man you didn’t love, true enough, but in the belief that he was a loyal, industrious person whom in time you would learn to love. That man has turned out to be a stultified, depraved wretch, utterly lacking in moral fibre. You’re deeply wounded in your woman’s pride,—the pride of a good, energetic woman. I understand that perfectly. You are looking for a spar to rescue you from the wreckage.”
“And you come and say to me, coldly: ‘I can’t be your rescuer; I have other ambitions. If I come across persons on the way who are suffering agonies because no one understands them, I turn my head the other direction and continue on my way.’”
“That’s true. I continue on my way. Would it be better to go ahead and do what any one else would, what a gallant man would, in my place? Take advantage of your plight, get you to become my mistress and then desert you? I have a conscience. Perhaps like my ambitions it is single-tracked. But that’s how it’s made; there’s no help for it.”
“There’s no salvation; my life is ruined,” muttered Esther, her eyes moist.
“Not at all. There’s work. Not all men are base and beastly; struggle on, yes, that’s what life is! Rather unrest, continual toil and moil, rather the unending alternation of pleasures and griefs than stagnation.”
Esther wiped off a tear with her handkerchief.
“Good-bye. I’ll try to follow your advice,” and she held out her hand.
Roberto took it, and in his cavalier-like fashion bowed and kissed it.