“Think well of me when I am gone, Syl,” said the old man. Sylvester grasped his shoulder a little tighter.
“That's a strange thing to ask me,” he said. “You know what I think of you. And for God's sake don't talk of the other matter.”
He moved away and struck a match to relight his cigar, which had gone out during his reverie. Matthew was silent for a few seconds.
“Suppose,” he said at last, “that any one you loved and thought the world of had done you a great wrong and had kept it hidden from you?”
Sylvester started, and his face grew suddenly pale. Did his father know? The old pain returned. He stood staring at the back of his father's chair. The match burned itself out between his fingers. His voice trembled as he spoke.
“There are some sins that are unforgivable. We needn't discuss them.”
It was Matthew's turn to start and look round at his son in anxious surmise.
“You are of course speaking of the matter in the abstract?” he said.
Sylvester struck another match, and spoke between the first few whiffs of his cigar.
“Yes. In the abstract. There is the woman, for instance, who betrays her husband, whose life is a horrible lie. To say to a man 'forgive,' is vain breath. I know men who say they have forgiven. They are almost as contemptible as their wives.”