But even as it was, he had never been quite fair to it; he had
seen it with a jaundiced eye. And again he believed Polly hit the nail
on the head, when she asserted that the poor position he had occupied
was responsible for much of his dislike.
But there was something else at work in him besides. Below the surface
an admission awaited him, which he shrank from making. All these pros
and cons, these quibbles and hair-splittings were but a misfit attempt
to cloak the truth. He might gull himself with them for a time: in his
heart he knew that he would yield--if yield he did--because he was by
nature only too prone to follow the line of least resistance. What he
had gone through to-night was no new experience. Often enough after
fretting and fuming about a thing till it seemed as if nothing under the
sun had ever mattered so much to him, it could happen that he suddenly
threw up the sponge and bowed to circumstance. His vitality exhausted
itself beforehand--in a passionate aversion, a torrent of words--and
failed him at the critical moment. It was a weakness in his blood--in
the blood of his race.--But in the present instance, he had an excuse
for himself. He had not known--till Polly came out with her brother's
offer--how he dreaded having to begin all over again in England, an
utter stranger, without influence or recommendations, and with no money
to speak of at his back.
But now he owned up, and there was no more need of shift or subterfuge:
now it was one rush and hurry to the end.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263