Sylvester, unaware of the stirring of great depths, replied coldly, “A man with a clean record behind him, like either of us, is certainly in a position to judge.”
“And pity?”
“Pity generally seems to be an elegant method of condoning those offences which one has in common with the person pitied,” replied Sylvester.
“So that when you are stainless you are pitiless?”
“In the sense of sympathising with evil in any form—yes.”
“Well,” said the old man, throwing himself back in his chair and covering his eyes with his hand, “thank God there's still some sin left in the world to keep it sweet!”
CHAPTER XV—A STRIP OF PINK PAPER
A few days afterwards Sylvester received an invitation to the wedding, accompanied by a despairing note from Lady Milmo. Ella would do it, and who could prevent her? When a woman was bent on a thing, especially matrimony, no mule in the world was so obstinate. Lady Milmo italicised freely, “obstinate” being doubly underlined. She hoped, however, that the lovers would be happy, explained that the wedding would be as quiet as her enormous circle of acquaintance would allow, and besought Sylvester to come and support her as the only soul that sympathised with her in this disastrous occurrence. Sylvester read the letter through somewhat grimly. Then he glanced at the silver-printed card. The conjuncture of the names caused him a sudden feeling of repugnance, and with an impulse he did not seek to explain, he threw the card into the fire. As for the invitation, he declined it on the score of professional engagements; also because he disapproved of marriage in the abstract. If all the race for one generation, he wrote, passed a self-denying ordinance of celibacy, there would be an end of this miserable thing that was called humanity.