“Which, I must protest, I certainly do not,” interposed Sir William.

“I will do my best to instruct you, sir.  Until recently, I have not known myself.  I met this girl.  She trusted herself to me.  You are aware that I know a little of men and of women; and when I tell you that I respect her now even more than I did at first—­much more—­so thoroughly, that I would now put my honour in her hands, by the counsel of my experience, as she, prompted by her instinct and her faith in me, confided hers to mine,—­perhaps, even if you persist in accusing me of rashness, you will allow that she must be in the possession of singularly feminine and estimable qualities.  I deceived her.  My object in doing so was to spare you.  Those consequences followed which can hardly fail to ensue, when, of two living together, the woman is at a disadvantage, and eats her heart without complaining.  I could have borne a shrewish tongue better, possibly because I could have answered it better.  It is worse to see a pale sad face with a smile of unalterable tenderness.  The very sweetness becomes repugnant.”

“As little boys requiring much medicine have anticipated you by noting in this world,” observed Sir William.

“I thank you for the illustration.”  Edward bowed, but he smarted.  “A man so situated lives with the ghost of his conscience.”

“A doubtful figure of speech,” Sir William broke in.  “I think you should establish the personality before you attempt to give a feature to the essence.  But, continue.”

Edward saw that by forfeiting simplicity, in order to catch his father’s peculiar cast of mind, he had left him cold and in doubt as to the existence of the powerful impulse by which he was animated.  It is a prime error in the orator not to seize the emotions and subdue the humanity of his hearers first.  Edward perceived his mistake.  He had, however, done well in making a show of the unabated vigour of his wits.  Contempt did not dwell in the baronet’s tone.  On the contrary, they talked and fenced, and tripped one another as of old; and, considering the breach he had been compelled to explode between his father and himself, Edward understood that this was a real gain.

He resumed:  “All figures of speech must be inadequate—­”

“Ah, pardon me,” said Sir William, pertinaciously; “the figure I alluded to was not inadequate.  A soap-bubble is not inadequate.”

“Plainly, sir, in God’s name, hear me out,” cried Edward.  “She—­what shall I call her? my mistress, my sweetheart, if you like—­let the name be anything ‘wife’ it should have been, and shall be—­I left her, and have left her and have not looked on her for many months.  I thought I was tired of her—­I was under odd influences—­witchcraft, it seems.  I could believe in witchcraft now.  Brutal selfishness is the phrase for my conduct.  I have found out my villany.  I have not done a day’s sensible work, or had a single clear