Beatrice hesitated. Wilfrid's voice thrilled with passion, his words rang with sincerity. It was almost impossible to believe that a man distinguished for bravery should stoop to common theft. The hesitancy passed and Beatrice turned away.
"What is the good of it?" she cried. "What do I gain by hearing you? And, surely, this is a wrong time and place for a confession----"
"A confession!" Wilfrid echoed scornfully. "I was going to make no confession. But bring in the nurse, so that I may explain what she has to do; after that I will detain you very little longer. Perhaps you are right."
There was no sign of heat or passion on Wilfrid's face as he shook hands with the nurse. She looked white and fragile for so difficult a task, but that was no business of his. Perhaps the nurse guessed what was passing through his mind, for she smiled at him unsteadily.
"I shall be all right," she said. "Dr. Shelton is a very good friend of mine. He knows that I have been ill for some time, and I am sure he would not send me a troublesome case. I know exactly what to do, thank you."
Wilfrid had only to take his departure. He had received his dismissal. He was not likely to see Beatrice again, therefore he could devote all his energies to the great fight before him. Nevertheless, he lingered in the hall on the off-chance of a last word with Beatrice, nor was he disappointed. The dining-room door opened in hesitating fashion and she stood before him. The hard, proud look had left her face now; her lips inclined to quiver.
"I cannot part with you like this," she murmured. "I have been thinking of what you said just now, and perhaps I am disposed to judge other people harshly."
"Did you ever know any prosperous man or woman who didn't?" Wilfred said with a bitter smile. "Oh, it maddens me to hear people prating their honesty when they have everything to make the path of existence smooth. Does it never strike these smug Pharisees that they would be born fools to be anything but honest? Why, there are thousands of criminals who die honourable and respected, either because they have never been found out or because they have never been under the necessity of knowing temptation. Take your case. What has your life been--one constant round of pleasure, a succession of years during which you have had everything you wanted and have been denied nothing? Do you suppose that you are any better than I am? Suppose you had somebody wholly dependent upon you for the mere necessaries of life, would you pry too minutely into things? But I am forgetting myself."
