There was a pause, while Thyrsis sat pondering, Should he try to explain to this man? But he shook his head. No, it would be useless to try. “She is not in your class,” he said.
“How do you mean?” asked the other.
“She has none of your culture, none of your social graces. She can’t write, and she can’t sing—she can’t do anything that your wife does.”
“I’m afraid,” said Channing, in a low voice, “you don’t take my remarks in the right spirit.”
“Even suppose that she were not what you call a ‘great woman-soul’,” persisted Thyrsis—“at least she has starved and suffered for me; and wouldn’t common loyalty bind me to her?”
“I have tried to do something very difficult,” said the other, after a silence. “I have tried to talk to you frankly. It is the most thankless task in the world to tell a man his own faults.”
“I know,” said Thyrsis. “And that’s all right—I’m perfectly willing. I don’t mind knowing my faults.”
“It is evident that you have resented it,” declared the other.
Thyrsis answered with a laugh, “Don’t you admit of replies to your criticisms? Suppose I’m pointing out some of your faults—your faults as a critic?”
Channing said that he did not object to that.