ordinary detachment! And all the time the stream of shabby
people was hastening by us, with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary
footsteps on the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime of
surfaces, on the poverty of tones and forms seemed of an inferior
quality, its joy faded, its brilliance tarnished and dusty. I had to
raise my voice in the dull vibrating noise of the roadway.

"You don't mean to say you have forgotten the connection?"

She cried readily enough: "I wasn't thinking." And then, while I
wondered what could have been the images occupying her brain at this
time, she asked me: "You didn't see my letter to Mrs. Fyne--did you?"

"No. I didn't," I shouted. Just then the racket was distracting, a pair-
horse trolly lightly loaded with loose rods of iron passing slowly very
near us. "I wasn't trusted so far." And remembering Mrs. Fyne's hints
that the girl was unbalanced, I added: "Was it an unreserved confession
you wrote?"

She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I thought that there's
nothing like a confession to make one look mad; and that of all
confessions a written one is the most detrimental all round. Never
confess! Never, never! An untimely joke is a source of bitter regret
always. Sometimes it may ruin a man; not because it is a joke, but
because it is untimely. And a confession of whatever sort is always
untimely. The only thing which makes it supportable for a while is
curiosity. You smile? Ah, but it is so, or else people would be sent to
the rightabout at the second sentence. How many sympathetic souls can
you reckon on in the world? One in ten, one in a hundred--in a
thousand--in ten thousand? Ah! What a sell these confessions are! What
a horrible sell! You seek sympathy, and all you get is the most
evanescent sense of relief--if you get that much. For a confession,
whatever it may be, stirs the secret depths of the hearer's character.
Often depths that he himself is but dimly aware of. And so the righteous
triumph secretly, the lucky are amused, the strong are disgusted, the
weak either upset or irritated with you according to the measure of their
sincerity with themselves. And all of them in their hearts brand you for
either mad or impudent . . . "

I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic, so earnestly
cynical before. I cut his declamation short by asking what answer Flora
de Barral had given to his question. "Did the poor girl ad