Basil.
Oh, I suppose you're shocked and scandalised. I ought to go on posing. I ought to act the part decently to the end. You would never have had the courage to do what I did, and yet, because I've failed, you think you can look down on me from the height of your moral elevation.
John.
[Gravely.] I was thinking how far a man may fall when he attempts to climb the stars.
Basil.
I gave the world fine gold, and their currency is only cowrie-shells. I held up an ideal, and they sneered at me. In this world you must wallow in the trough with the rest of them.... The only moral I can see is that if I'd acted like a blackguard—as ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have done—and let Jenny go to the dogs, I should have remained happy and contented and prosperous. And she, I dare say, wouldn't have died.... It's because I tried to do my duty and act like a gentleman and a man of honour, that all this misery has come about.
John.
[Looking at him quietly.] I think I should put it in another way. One has to be very strong and very sure of oneself to go against the ordinary view of things. And if one isn't, perhaps it's better not to run any risks, but just to walk along the same secure old road as the common herd. It's not exhilarating, it's not brave, and it's rather dull. But it's eminently safe.
[Basil scarcely hears the last words, but listens
intently to other sounds outside.
Basil.