“It’s a small reason,” the other insisted hotly.  “Hardly more than the idiotic fact that I’m not in the Social Register.  I am ashamed of her, and I said so.  It was so little that I told her I wouldn’t argue.  She could go to the devil.”

“Really,” the other observed, “really, I shall have to ask you to control your language or leave.”

“I wonder if she will?” the surprising James Polder sombrely speculated.  “I wonder if I am?  But there are other women, with better hearts.”

“Are we to construe this as a threat?” Howat asked in a delicately balanced tone.

“For God’s sake,” he begged, “can’t you be human!” The other suddenly recalled Mariana’s imploring anger at the Polders.  “Don’t be so rotten, Howat.”  The confusion of his valuations, his habitual attitudes of thought, returned.  His gaze strayed to the obscured ruin of Shadrach Furnace, at once a monument of departed vigour and present disintegration.  Perhaps, just as the energy had expired in the Furnace, it had seeped from him.  It might be that he was only a sere husk, a dry bundle of inhibitions, insensible to the green humanity of life.

“I couldn’t go on my knees to anything,” the younger took up his burden.  “Wrong or not it is the way I’m made.  I’d not hang about where I wasn’t wanted.  Although you mightn’t think it.  And I am sorry I came here.  I do things like that all the time; I mean I do, say, exactly the opposite of what I plan.  You’ll think I am a braying ass, of course.”

“Stop for a breath,” Howat Penny recommended; “a breath, and a cigarette.”  He extended his case; and, in place of taking a cigarette, Polder examined the case resentfully.  “There is it,” he declared; “correct, like all the rest of you.  And it’s only old leather.  But mine would be different.  I could sink and Mariana wouldn’t put out a hand just on account of that.  It’s wrong,” he insisted.  Expressed in that manner it did seem to Howat Penny a small reason for the withholding of any paramount salvation.  Yet, he told himself, he had no intention, desire, to undertake the weight of any reformation.  A futile effort, he added, with his vague consciousness of implacable destiny, his dim sense of man moved from without, in locked progression.  Polder was young, rebellious; but he could grow older; he would grow older and comprehend; or else beat himself to death on obdurate circumstance.  What concerned Howat was the hope that Mariana would be no further involved in either process.  She too had this to learn—­that, in the end, blood was stronger than will; the dead were terribly potent.  He had, even, no inclination to say any of this to the man frowning in the dusk at his side.  It would be useless, a mere preaching.  An expression, too, of a slight but actual sympathy for James Polder would be misleading.  In the main Howat was entirely careless of what might happen to the other; it was only where, unfortunately, he touched Mariana that he entered into the elder’s world.  He would sacrifice him for Mariana in an instant.  Polder rose.