"I am afraid it will mean great sacrifice," I murmured.
"Would you recommend me not to do it?" he asked.
"You must obey your Inner Self, or suffer torment," I replied.
"I must, and I will," he said firmly. "Now listen to me. My father was not, as I have said, a wealthy man, and on his death I inherited little beyond good principles and good books. The waiting period for financial success was long, but latterly I have made money. I have £7,000 in the bank, and a good income. And my judgment agrees with yours: I must part with my marbles."
"Oh, Mr. Derwent," I exclaimed; "think well before you take so serious a step! What is my hasty decision worth? It was given on the spur of the moment: it was the immature judgment of an inexperienced woman!"
"It was the spontaneous expression of pure, instinctive truth," he replied. "Yet do not feel any sense of responsibility. I had already reached the same conclusion: you merely confirmed it, and in doing so helped and strengthened me—though the decision set back a hope that had arisen within me."
"But, Mr. Derwent"—I was groping around vainly for a loophole of escape—"this Mr. Mainwaring, is he poor? does he need the money? will he use it well?"
"What does that matter?" he replied. "His wealth or poverty cannot affect the question of right or wrong. The money is his by right. I robbed him of it by forensic cunning and rhetoric, and I will repay him. As a matter of fact he is fabulously wealthy, and £7,000 is to him a mere drop in an ocean. And he spends his money on horses and dissipation. He is a bigger scoundrel than Lessingham, and that is saying much."
"But what a shame, Mr. Derwent! It does not seem right."
"It can never be wrong to do right. Besides, I misled you at the outset of our conversation—misled you purposely. I could not change my mind now if I wished to do so, for I posted Mainwaring a cheque for the full amount this morning."