“In plain words,” I went on, “you can find no excuse for your conduct?”
“In the past time,” he said, “I might have found excuses.”
“But you can’t find them now?”
“I must not even look for them now.”
“Why not?”
“I owe it to Eunice to leave my conduct at its worst; with nothing said—by me—to defend it.”
“What has Eunice done to have such a claim on you as that?”
“Eunice has forgiven me.”
It was gratefully and delicately said. Ought I to have allowed this circumstance to weigh with me? I ask, in return, had I never committed any faults? As a fellow-mortal and fellow-sinner, had I any right to harden my heart against an expression of penitence which I felt to be sincere in its motive?
But I was bound to think of Eunice. I did think of her, before I ventured to accept the position—the critical position, as I shall presently show—of Philip’s friend.