"How do you like yours, Stephen?"
"Not too strong, sir."
"Well, help yourself. That's a good thing over. My one mistake, and yet—it had to be."
His voice expressed relief. The dirty business was over, the make-believe done with.
"I suppose you thought I didn't know?"
He was filling his glass, and he looked up and across the table at Sorrell.
"But I did know. You will have to forgive me my one blind eye. That blackguard was giving you hell. But—I wanted him to hang himself; I wanted to be sure."
He raised his glass.
"There's forgiveness in good drink. Your health, Stephen."
"The same to you, sir."
"Then you do forgive me?"
"I had began to wonder"
"Yes,—I felt that. Besides—I didn't quite know how bad it was. Well,—that's all over."
He pushed the cigarettes towards Sorrell.
"Sit down, man. You don't know what a relief this is. How I loathe that class—in the mass. We are outside the pale to them. Their sense of honour—such as it is—does not include us. It wasn't always so."
He went and sat on his music-stool, while Sorrell took one of the chairs.
"We are fair game to most of them, we who have anything, or can do anything a little better than the crowd. We are to be robbed, lied to, blackmailed, slandered. Isn't that so?"
"I suppose it is. But—not all."
"Oh,—I know. Some of us have the remnants of souls. I have good people here; I know it. They don't look on me as their natural enemy. To me it is the individual that matters. Breed. O, well, what is it? A fastidiousness, a sense of humour and a sense of proportion, the knowledge that hitting a better man than yourself with a pick-handle doesn't make for progress. Beauty. Wisdom. Disdain and pity instead of scorn. You know."
Suddenly, he laughed, and his laughter was quiet and self-amused.
