The cynicism was too gross even for him. There are limits to every man's baseness and cowardice. Moreover, his secret was known. To proclaim it himself was a more heroic escape than to let it be revealed with killing contempt by another. The two forces converged suddenly, and found their resultant in his outburst. It was characteristic of him that there should be two motives, though which one was the stronger it were hard to say—most likely revolt at the cynicism, for he was not a depraved man.
Norma looked swiftly from one to the other.
“What did you tell my mother a week ago?”
Jimmie picked up Morland's crush-hat that lay on the table and thrust it into his hand.
“Oh, that's enough, my dear good fellow. Don't talk about those horrible things. Mrs. Hardacre would like to be going. You had better see her home. Good-night.”
He pushed him, as he spoke, gently towards Mrs. Hardacre, who was already moving towards the door. But Norma came up.
“I insist upon knowing,” she said.
“No, no,” said Jimmie, in an agitated voice. “Let the dead past bury its dead. Don't rake up old horrors.”
Morland cleared himself away from Jimmie.
“My God! You are a good man. I've been an infernal blackguard. Everybody had better know. If Jimmie hadn't taken it upon himself, that madman would have shot me. He would have hit the right man. I wish to heaven he had.”