“Do you think I am fool enough not to know that?” Lester replied with almost savage earnestness.
“Then why in the name of sense don't you keep straight?”
“I resolve to, and then go and get drunk against my will. You don't know what it's like.”
Philip regarded him sadly. There was a heavy melancholy in the boy's whole attitude that distressed him—a spirit as of dumb submission to the inevitable. It was only lifted when he indulged in his wild bursts of grief.
“What's the good!” Lester continued. “I can keep up for a day or two, but I go back to it every time.”
Philip shrugged his shoulders, saying with a poor attempt at lightness: “I suppose one should not resist the flesh. Our most virtuous moments are those which come when we have tired the devil out within us and are basking in the splendor of the good resolutions that tread upon the heels of satiety.” He would have given anything to recall the words once they were spoken, for Lester shrank from him.
“I didn't think you would talk to me so—not now,” he said.
There was the dull glint of anger in his lack-luster eyes, but it faded away almost immediately. Once more he became stupidly quiet.
“Forgive me,” Philip ventured penitently. “I didn't mean to wound you.”
“It's all right,” Lester said indifferently. “It's all right. I presume you are thoroughly sick of me.