“I haven’t the slightest doubt of it. He has given me a talking to this afternoon such as I haven’t had since I left school—not since I left the nursery. Did you ever read a book on pragmatism?”
“No.”
“You don’t happen to know the name of the best book on the subject?”
“No, but I’m sure that Meldon—”
“Don’t,” said Mr. Willoughby. “I’d rather not start him on the subject again. Have you any cigars? I want one badly. I got no good of the two I half smoked while he was here.”
“I’m afraid not. But your own cigar-case has one in it. It’s on the table.”
“I can’t smoke that one. To put it plainly, I daren’t. Your friend Meldon said he might want it. I’d be afraid to face him if it was gone.”
“But it’s your own cigar! Why should Meldon——”
“It’s not my cigar. Nothing in the world is mine any more, not even my mind, or my morality, or my self-respect is my own. Mr. Meldon has taken them from me, and torn them in pieces before my eyes. He has left me a nervous wreck of a man I once was. Did you say he was a parson?”