O’Rane looked up in surprise.
“Is this a new riddle?,” he asked.
“It’s the oldest riddle in the world. They knew the difference between good and evil; God never did. I sometimes wonder why any of us try to lead a decent life or to do the right thing. It doesn’t pay in this world, and I’m sure God only despises you in the next... You’d like a glass of sherry, wouldn’t you?,” he added, as their waiter came within ear-shot.
“I hardly ever touch wine, thanks...” O’Rane listened for a moment to the departing footsteps, then lowered his voice. “If you feel like that, Eric, you’ve only to go back and say that you want to be married at once. She’ll do it. If you told her you were going straight to a sanatorium—for the rest of your life—, you’ve only to ask her and she’ll go with you. If you play that card, no one in the world can beat you. And you know it.”
There was a long silence only broken by the drumming of nervous fingers on the table.
“Yes. I know it,” Eric answered.
“Why don’t you play it?”
“Perhaps I don’t much care about the idea of bringing consumptive children into the world.”
“She’ll wait till you’re cured... Don’t be a humbug, Eric. You’re going to spoil everything, if you become bitter. Cynicism is a young man’s substitute for knowledge. We’re not boys. We can see this dispassionately; you’ve done the right thing, the only possible thing, the inevitable thing. It hurts, but I can shew you a way of making it hurt less. At present you’re seeing nothing but blackness ahead, but, if you’ll come for a walk with me after dinner, I’ll put something in place of all you think you’re losing.”
“I shall be interested to see you try.”