“Will you shake hands?”
“Why? We’re not friends. And you’ve not given me anything.”
The humming ceased, and O’Rane called out to know whether Eric was coming.
“I’m too tired to wrangle,” sighed Eric. “Don’t shake hands, if you don’t want to. Good-bye again.”
“Good-bye.”
Eric’s hand fell to his side, and he walked slowly to the door and across the hall.
“What d’you want me to do now?,” he asked dully.
“I’ll take you home,” answered O’Rane. “I’m afraid Gaymer hasn’t learned the art of being gracious; and he’ll be punished for it. I’m prepared to bet he’s being punished now. Whenever he looks at his wife, he’ll remember that you behaved well and he didn’t. He’ll try to forget it; but she won’t let him, she’ll always know that, when you found you couldn’t marry her yourself, you strained every nerve to get her happily married to the man she loved better than you. If anything makes Gaymer run straight, it’ll be that reflection. You’ve behaved uncommonly well, Eric, if I may say so, though not better than she deserved; you’re giving up everything to her, but she was ready to give up everything to you. I’ve not finished with you yet; you’ve still to give your blessing to the marriage. Tell her quite simply that, as you can’t marry her yourself—Yes, you must do that... And that’s all you can do. If they’re coming to grief, you can’t stop them; you’ve already done what only one man in ten million would do. In future—you’re funking the future, aren’t you?”
“It seems a little—purposeless,” said Eric.
He wondered whether his voice trembled as much as his lips.