“In all the time that I’ve known you, Armstrong,” said a voice, a new voice, “you’ve asked my advice repeatedly, asked the reason for it, insisted that I explain minutely, and disregarded it absolutely. I’ve tried to be honest with you each time, tried to be of service; and still you’ve disregarded. It’s been the same to-night, the old, old story. I’ve been dead in earnest, tried to be unselfish, and still you question and doubt and insist.” A second the voice halted, the speaker glancing down, not analytically or whimsically, as usual, but of a sudden icy cold. “You insist now, against my request, and once more I’m going to humor you. You wish to know what I meant by ‘don’t’ delay. I meant just this, man, just this and no more: Chances for happiness come to us all sometime in our 107 lives. They knock at our door and wait for us to open. Sometimes, not often, they knock twice; but they don’t keep on knocking forever. There are a multitude of other doors in the world and, after a while, opportunity, our opportunity, goes by, and never returns; no matter how loudly we call. Is that clear enough, man?”
“In the abstract, yes.” Armstrong’s lips were dry and he moistened them unconsciously. “In the concrete, though, as it applies to my—happiness—”
“God, you’re an egotist, Armstrong! Is it possible you can’t understand, or won’t?”
Slowly, with an effort, Armstrong arose; his face of a sudden gray, his hands fastened to the back of his chair.
“You mean to suggest that Elice,” he began, “that Elice—You dare to suggest that to me?”
“Dare?”
They looked at each other, not three feet apart.
“Dare?” Roberts repeated.
“Darley!”
“Don’t! I’ve argued, advised, used persuasion—everything. Take that as a warning if 108 you wish, or disregard it if you choose. I’m done.”