“Mary—­Mr. Mallet?” Roderick repeated, almost savagely.  He released himself from the clasp of his mother’s hand and turned away, leaning his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.  There was a silence; Rowland said nothing because he was watching Miss Garland.  “Why should I stand on ceremony with Mary and Mr. Mallet?” Roderick presently added.  “Mary pretends to believe I ’m a fine fellow, and if she believes it as she ought to, nothing I can say will alter her opinion.  Mallet knows I ’m a hopeless humbug; so I need n’t mince my words with him.”

“Ah, my dear, don’t use such dreadful language!” said Mrs. Hudson.  “Are n’t we all devoted to you, and proud of you, and waiting only to hear what you want, so that we may do it?”

Roderick got up, and began to walk about the room; he was evidently in a restless, reckless, profoundly demoralized condition.  Rowland felt that it was literally true that he did not care a straw for anything, but he observed with anxiety that Mrs. Hudson, who did not know on what delicate ground she was treading, was disposed to chide him caressingly, as a mere expression of tenderness.  He foresaw that she would bring down the hovering thunderbolt on her head.

“In God’s name,” Roderick cried, “don’t remind me of my obligations!  It ’s intolerable to me, and I don’t believe it ’s pleasant to Mallet.  I know they ’re tremendous—­I know I shall never repay them.  I ’m bankrupt!  Do you know what that means?”

The poor lady sat staring, dismayed, and Rowland angrily interfered.  “Don’t talk such stuff to your mother!” he cried.  “Don’t you see you ’re frightening her?”

“Frightening her? she may as well be frightened first as last.  Do I frighten you, mother?” Roderick demanded.

“Oh, Roderick, what do you mean?” whimpered the poor lady.  “Mr. Mallet, what does he mean?”

“I mean that I ’m an angry, savage, disappointed, miserable man!” Roderick went on.  “I mean that I can’t do a stroke of work nor think a profitable thought!  I mean that I ’m in a state of helpless rage and grief and shame!  Helpless, helpless—­that ’s what it is.  You can’t help me, poor mother—­not with kisses, nor tears, nor prayers!  Mary can’t help me—­not for all the honor she does me, nor all the big books on art that she pores over.  Mallet can’t help me—­not with all his money, nor all his good example, nor all his friendship, which I ’m so profoundly well aware of:  not with it all multiplied a thousand times and repeated to all eternity!  I thought you would help me, you and Mary; that ’s why I sent for you.  But you can’t, don’t think it!  The sooner you give up the idea the better for you.  Give up being proud of me, too; there ’s nothing left of me to be proud of!  A year ago I was a mighty fine fellow; but do you know what has become of me now?  I have gone to the devil!”