“About that woman and the fix she is in. You know who her husband is, surely.”
I bowed. “He was on the ship.”
“Yes,” grunted Sir Robert sardonically, “he was on the ship. And you saw what he did in the Grand Hotel at Yokohama, didn't you? He nearly killed a waiter—a Chinaman, who was quite defenseless. But of course you saw it. I recall that you were dining with him at the time.”
“He was drunk,” I said huskily, as if in extenuation.
“Yes,” repeated Sir Robert dryly. “He was drunk. Rather dangerous at such times, is n't he?”
“Yes, but he quit drinking—after that. Cut it all out.” I could not keep my voice from rising a little. I felt my confusion increasing—my thoughts were all adrift, swept here and there by currents of feeling that I could not fathom.
“Oh, he did?” Why would n't that old man take his unpleasant eyes off me! “Oh, he did? You are in his confidence, then. And of course you know even more”—he paused, very deliberately—“regarding his state of mind, his reason for coming out here to the other side of the world, all that?”
I sat limp in my chair, still chewing that crumpling cigar.
Sir Robert leaned back. He was seated on the leather sofa. He let his head rest on the shabby upholstery and studied the ceiling. In one hand he held his cigar, in the other his monocle, tracing patterns in the air with them. His hands are not thin, but the skin on them is crisscrossed with fine wrinkles like the skin on his face and neck.
“My boy,” he began, after a rime, “I'm going to offer you a little counsel. You won't take it, but I am going to offer it. Probably, at your age, I should n't have taken it either.” He sighed. “I am an old man. For forty-five years I have been observing men—and women. I have seen—well, a good deal, one way and another. And the one fact I have come to be sure of.... You know, Eckhart, the great mass of human beings—in Europe and America, at least, labor under the curious delusion that the race has finally worked out something of a civilization. Curious, but they do. It is rot, of course. All rot. There is no civilization. Life is quite as primitive as ever. Only we have developed extraordinary ingenuity at covering life up. That's it. That's our greatest triumph—covering up! At best, it is pretty messy business. And all we can be sure of is that every man owes it to himself and his legitimate offspring to save his skin at all costs, and incidentally, to capture what little he can of the common booty.”