“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 company into this narrow pass?  A man whom I cared for less I would long since have parted with.  You were needed—­you and something you have about you that always takes me so—­to bring me to this.  You ennobled, exalted, enchanted the struggle.  I did value my prospect of coming into Mr. Sloane’s property.  I valued it for my poor sister’s sake as well as for my own, so long as it was the natural reward of conscientious service, and not the prize of hypocrisy and cunning.  With another man than you I never would have contested such a prize.  But you fascinated me, even as my rival.  You played with me, deceived me, betrayed me.  I held my ground, hoping you would see that what you were doing was not fair.  But if you have seen it, it has made no difference with you.  For Mr. Sloane, from the moment that, under your magical influence, he revealed his nasty little nature, I had nothing but contempt.”

“And for me now?”

“Don’t ask me.  I don’t trust myself.”

“Hate, I suppose.”

“Is that the best you can imagine?  Farewell.”

“Is it a serious farewell—­farewell forever?”

“How can there be any other?”

“I am sorry this should be your point of view.  It’s characteristic.  All the more reason then that I should say a word in self-defence.  You accuse me of having ‘played with you, deceived you, betrayed you.’  It seems to me that you are quite beside the mark.  You say you were such a friend of mine; if so, you ought to be one still.  It was not to my fine sentiments you attached yourself, for I never had any or pretended to any.  In anything I have done recently, therefore, there has been no inconsistency.  I never pretended to take one’s friendships so seriously.  I don’t understand the word in the sense you attach to it.  I don’t understand the feeling of affection between men.  To me it means quite another thing.  You give it a meaning of your own; you enjoy the profit of your invention; it’s no more than just that you should pay the penalty.  Only it seems to me rather hard that I should pay it.”  Theodore remained silent, but he looked quite sick.  “Is it still a ’serious farewell’?” I went on.  “It seems a pity.  After this clearing up, it appears to me that I shall be on better terms with you.  No man can have a deeper appreciation of your excellent parts, a keener enjoyment of your society.  I should very much regret the loss of it.”

“Have we, then, all this while understood each other so little?” said Theodore.

“Don’t say ‘we’ and ‘each other.’  I think I have understood you.”

“Very likely.  It’s not for my having kept anything back.”

“Well, I do you justice.  To me you have always been over-generous.  Try now and be just.”