"That's true enough, Ewan," said Dan, and his head fell between his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.
"What are you doing? Drinking, gambling, roistering, cheating—yes—"
Dan got on his feet uneasily and took a step to and fro about the little place; then sat again, and buried his head in his hands as before.
"I've been a reckless, self-willed, mad fool, Ewan, but no worse than that. And if you could see me as God sees me, and know how I suffer for my follies and curse them, for all I seem to make so light of them, and how I am driven to them one on the head of another, perhaps—perhaps—perhaps—you would have pity—ay, pity."
"Pity? Pity for you? You who have brought your father to shame? He is the ruin of the man he was. You have impoverished him; you have spent his substance and wasted it. Ay, and you have made his gray head a mark for reproach. 'Set your own house in order'—that's what the world says to the man of God whose son is a child of the—"
"Stop!" cried Dan.
He had leapt to his feet, his fist clenched, his knuckles showing like nuts of steel.
But Ewan went on, standing there with a face that was ashy white above his black coat. "Your heart is as dead as your honor. And that is not all, but you must outrage the honor of another."
Now, when Ewan said this, Dan thought of his forged signature, and of the censure and suspension to which Ewan was thereby made liable.
"Go away," Ewan cried again, motioning Dan off with his trembling hand.