She was determined to show herself no mercy.
"And now tell me about yourself," she went on.
"Why should I?" he asked, almost dejectedly. "You would never understand me, however long I spoke. No, I can't speak about myself to-day."
"It's not only to-day: it's very often."
"Yes, very often. The idea suddenly comes to me . . . that everything has been of no use. That I have done nothing that was worth while. That my life ought to have been quite different . . . to be worth while."
"What do you mean by worth while?"
"Worth while for people, for humanity. It always obsessed me, after my games in the woods. You remember my telling you how I used to play in the woods?"
"Yes," she said, very softly.
"Tell me," he suddenly broke in. "Are those memories to which I have no right?"
"You are a man," said she.
"Have I more right to memories, as a man?"
"Why not . . . to these?" she said, softly.
"They do not make your years ridiculous . . . as mine do mine."
"Are you so much afraid . . . of ridicule?"
"Yes," she said, frankly. "I am as unwilling to be ashamed in my own eyes . . . as in those of the world."
"So you abdicate . . ."
