Lawrence drew back with an impatient gesture.  “Oh, let’s drop all this!” The civilized second self was in revolt alike against his own morbid cruelty and Val’s escape into heaven:  he would admit nothing except that he had gone through one trying scene after another in the last eighteen hours, and that Val had paid for the irritation produced successively by Mrs. Cleve, Isabel, a white night, and a distressed anxious consciousness of unavowed guilt.  “We shall be at each other’s throats in a minute, which wouldn’t suit either your book or mine—­you’ve no idea, Val, how little it would suit mine!  I’m sorry I was so offensive.  But you wrong me, you do indeed; I’m not in love with Laura, and, if I were, the notion of picking poor Bernard’s pocket is absolutely repugnant to me.  Social expediency be hanged!  What! as his guest?—­ But let’s drop recrimination; I had no right to resent what you said after forcing you to say it, nor, in any case, to taunt you . . .  I beg your pardon:  there! for heaven’s sake let’s leave it at that.”

“Will you release me from my parole?”

“Yes, and wish to heaven I’d never extracted it.  I had no right to impose it on you or to hold you to it.  But don’t give yourself away, Val, I can’t bear to think of what you’ll have to face.  It will be what you once called it—­crucifixion.”

“No, freedom,” said Val.  “After all these years in prison.”  He put up his hand to his head.  “The brand—­the—­What’s the matter?” Lawrence had seized his arm.  “Am I—­am I talking rubbish?  I feel half asleep.  But one night’s sitting up aughtn’t to—­ Oh, this is absurd! . . .”

Lawrence waited in the patience of dismay.  It was no excuse to plead that till then he had not known all the harm he had done; men should not set racks to work in ignorance of their effect on trembling human nerves.

“That’s over,” said Val, wiping his forehead.  “Sorry to make a fuss, but it came rather suddenly.  Things always happen so simply when they do happen.”

“Are you going to confess?”

“Oh yes.  I ought to have done it long ago.  In fact last night I made up my mind to break my parole if you wouldn’t let me off, but I’d rather have it this way.  Remains only to choose time and place:  that’ll need care, for I mustn’t hurt others more than I can help.  But I wouldn’t mind betting it’ll all be as simple as shelling peas.  The odds are that people won’t believe half I say.  They’ll have forgotten all about the war by now, and they’ll make far too much allowance for my being only nineteen.”

“And for a voluntary confession:  that always carries great weight.  They would judge you very differently if it had come out by chance.  Rightly, too:  if you’re going to make such a confession at your time of life, it will be difficult for any one to call you a coward.”

“Thank you!” Val shrugged his shoulders with the old indolent irony.  “But moral courage was always my long suit.”