"Are you going away?"
"Of course I am. Farewell."
"Farewell, then. But isn't your departure rather sudden?"
"I ought to have gone three weeks ago—three weeks ago." I had taken his hand, he pulled it away, covered his face, and suddenly burst into tears.
"Is that indifference?" I asked.
"It's something you'll never know," he cried. "It's shame! I'm not sorry you should see it. It will suggest to you, perhaps, that my heart has never been in this filthy contest. Let me assure you, at any rate, that it hasn't; that it has had nothing but scorn for the base perversion of my pride and my ambition. These tears are tears of joy at their return—the return of the prodigals! Tears of sorrow—sorrow—"
He was unable to go on. He sank into a chair, burying his face in his handkerchief.
"For God's sake, Theodore," I said, "stick to the joy."
He rose to his feet again. "Well," he said, "it was for your sake that I parted with my self respect; with your assistance I recover it."
"How for my sake?"
"For whom but you would I have gone as far as I did? For what other purpose than that of keeping our friendship whole would I have borne you
