“You mean what you were talking about, don’t you?” demanded the girl, her eyes flashing.
Thyrsis dropped his glance. “Yes,” he said. “I am a cur. I beg your pardon. I am so ashamed of myself that I don’t know what to do. But, oh, I was crazy. I couldn’t help it! and I—I’m so sorry!” There were tears in his voice.
“Humph,” said the girl, “it’s all right.”
“No,” said Thyrsis, “it’s all wrong. It’s dreadful—it’s horrible. I don’t know what I should have done—-”
“Well, you better not do it any more, that’s all,” said she. “I’m sure you needn’t worry about me—I’ll take care of myself.”
Thyrsis looked at her again; she was no longer beautiful. Her face was coarse, and her anger did not make it any better. His humility made no impression.
“It is so wrong—-” he began; but she interrupted him.
“Preaching won’t help it any,” she said. “I don’t want to hear it. Good-bye.”
So she turned and walked away; and Thyrsis stood there, white, and shuddering, until at last he started and strode off. Clear through the town he went, and out into the black country beyond, seeing nothing, caring about nothing. He flung himself down by the roadside, and lay there moaning for hours: “My God, my God, what shall I do?”
Section 12. It was nearly morning when he came back and crept upstairs to his room; and here he sat by the bedside, gazing at the haggard face in the glass. At such times as this he discovered a something in his features that filled him with shuddering; he discovered it in his words, and in the very tone of his voice—the sins of the fathers were being visited upon the children! What an old, old story it was to him—this anguish and remorse! These ecstasies of resolution that vanished like a cloud-wrack—these protestations and noble sentiments that counted for naught in conduct! And his was to be the whole heritage of impotence and futility; he, too, was to struggle and agonize—and to finish with his foot in the trap!