“What do you mean by 'richer'.” I cried. “More money?”
He waved me back with his monocle, and went on with his argument. “She was unwilling to bear him children. Now, Eckhart, that is serious. She was his wife. She refused there to meet her absolute duty as a wife. English law, at least, is quite definite on that point.”
This was dreadful. I could hardly keep in my chair.
“And following all this”—he was growing emphatic now—“she deliberately leaves his home and attaches herself to another man. There is certainly no doubt there, my boy. That is adultery. She dishonored his home. She dishonored him—”
Here, I admit, I lost my temper. I sprang up, and for the second time in my acquaintance with this old man, shook my finger under his nose.
“Rot!” I cried, using his own phrase. “Rot! All rot! He had dishonored her home a hundred times.” My voice rang out on that word “dishonored.” I fairly jammed it down Sir Robert's throat—made h'm eat that word, letter by letter. “For God's sake, lower your voice!” said he. “Adultery!” I shouted this, too. “Good God—'adultery' is a commonplace to Crocker!”
“You don't know this,” said he. Then, “Lower your voice!”
“But I do know,” I answered him. “He told me himself. 'Adultery!' Why, millions of men commit adultery'—good men, bad men, every sort of men! That's what the millions of prostitutes are for! And, guilty or innocent, we all lie about it to the women and the children. Lie—lie—lie! I'm sick of it! I'm a scientist, I tell you, and I don't recognize lies in my business. There's something wrong somewhere. We're all playing at life—all pretending—all making believe—when we ought to be studying the facts, working through those facts toward the truth.”
“What did I tell you,” he broke in, talking around my finger—“covering up!”
“We're afraid of the truth,” I shouted. “So we cling desperately to our lies, and call them beautiful. And the truth—beaten down, perverted—undermines us, saps us, beats us at every turn. God, it's awful!” My hand fell by my side.