It was true, but he need not have noticed it. The fact is, I had nothing to say at the moment. That being the case there was plainly nothing for it but to abuse him.
"You are the Cynic to-day," I said, "and I foresee that you are going to sharpen your wit upon poor me. But I am not in the mood. You see, it is Sunday, and in Windyridge we are subdued and not brilliant on Sundays."
Perhaps his ear caught the weariness in my voice, for I was feeling tired and depressed; at any rate his tone changed immediately.
"I saw at once you were off colour," he said, "and I was making a clumsy attempt to buck you up; but, seriously, have you no questions you wish to ask me about the old place?"
"I should like to know how matters are progressing with you," I said. "I often wonder what the world thinks of your pronunciation."
"The world knows nothing of it. I have never mentioned what I have done to anyone but you, and I do not propose to do so. As for myself—but what makes you wonder? Are you afraid I may have repented?"
"No," I replied, "you will never repent, you are not that sort. Not for one moment have I doubted your steadfastness."
"Thank you," he said simply; and then, after a moment's pause:
"I don't think it is anything to my credit. If I had been differently constituted the sacrifice would have entailed suffering, even if it had not proved too great for me. It was a lot of money, and if money is in any sense a man's god it must hurt him to lose so much. My god may be equally base, but it is not golden. In that respect I am like those ancient Athenians of whom Plato speaks, who 'bare lightly the burden of gold and of possessions,' though I fear I am not like them in despising all things except virtue. Besides, even now I am not exactly poor, for I have a good income."
"I have thirty shillings a week on the average," I interposed, "and I consider myself quite well to do."