said at last.

"Never."

"She's willing to forget everything that's happened and start afresh.
She'll never make you a single reproach."

"She can go to hell."

"You don't care if people think you an utter blackguard?
You don't care if she and your children have to beg their bread?"

"Not a damn."

I was silent for a moment in order to give greater force to my
next remark. I spoke as deliberately as I could.

"You are a most unmitigated cad."

"Now that you've got that off your chest, let's go and have dinner."

Chapter XIII

I dare say it would have been more seemly to decline this proposal.
I think perhaps I should have made a show of the
indignation I really felt, and I am sure that Colonel
MacAndrew at least would have thought well of me if I had been
able to report my stout refusal to sit at the same table with
a man of such character. But the fear of not being able to
carry it through effectively has always made me shy of
assuming the moral attitude; and in this case the certainty
that my sentiments would be lost on Strickland made it
peculiarly embarrassing to utter them. Only the poet or the
saint can water an asphalt pavement in the confident
anticipation that lilies will reward his labour.

I paid for what we had drunk, and we made our way to a cheap
restaurant, crowded and gay, where we dined with pleasure.
I had the appetite of youth and he of a hardened conscience.
Then we went to a tavern to have coffee and liqueurs.

I had said all I had to say on the subject that had brought me
to Paris, and though I felt it in a manner treacherous to Mrs.
Strickland not to pursue it, I could not struggle against his
indifference. It requires the feminine temperament to repeat
the same thing three times with unabated zest. I solaced
myself by thinking that it would be useful for me to find out
what I could about Strickland's state of mind. It also
interested me much more. But this was not an easy thing to do,
for Strickland was not a fluent talker. He seemed to
express himself with difficulty, as though words were not the
medium with which his mind worked; and you had to guess the
intentions of his soul by hackneyed phrases, slang, and vague,
unfinished gestures. But though he said nothing of any
consequence, there was something in his personality which
prevented him from being dull. Perhaps it was sincerity.
He did not seem to care much about the Paris he was now seeing
for the fir