“You!”
There was a sound of wonder in her voice.
“Yes. You say I am an egoist. And this that I am saying will seem to you egoism. It is egoism, I suppose. But I want to know—I must know. How would you judge me? How do you judge me?”
She was silent.
“How are you judging me at this moment? Aren’t you judging me by the distance I fall, the distance, perhaps, you think I have fallen?”
He spoke slowly. He was delaying. For all the time he spoke he was secretly battling with his pride—and his pride was a strong fighter. But to-night his passion for sincerity, his instinct that for Hermione—and for him, too—salvation lay in their perfect, even in their cruel sincerity to themselves and to each other, was a strong fighter also. In it his pride met an antagonist that was worthy of it. And he went on:
“Are you judging me by this summer?”
He paused.
“Go on,” she said.
He could not tell by her voice what she was feeling, thinking. Expression seemed to be withdrawn from it, perhaps deliberately.