“Oh. but I do!”
“I can hardly believe that.”
“Dependence on others is as bad as gratitude. It is a demand, a weakness. Strength is better. If each of us stood selfishly alone, it would be a cleaner, better world. There wouldn't be any of this mess of obligation, one to another. No running up of spiritual debt. And that's the worst kind.”
“But suppose,” she began, a little afraid of getting into depths from which it might be difficult to extreate herself, “suppose—well, you were married, and there were—well, little children. Surely you'd have to feel responsible for them.”
“Surely,” said he curtly, “it isn't necessary for every man to bring children 'nto the world. Surely that's not the only job.”
“But—but take another case. Suppose you had a friend, a younger man, and he was in trouble—drinking, maybe; anything!—wouldn't you feel responsible for him?”
“Not at all. That's the worst kind of dependence. The only battles a man wins are the ones he wins alone. If any friend of mine—man or woman—can't win his own battles—or hers—he or she had better go. Anywhere. To hell, if it comes to that.”
He quite took her breath away.
One bell sounded.
“It's perfectly dreadful,” said she. “If Mrs. Has-mer knew I was out here at this time of night, she'd...”