‘What ails you to-day, Meadowes?’ he said; ‘truly this country life is too quiet for you by half. Come, we shall return to town, play high, and forget care.’ ‘I have no care,’ said Meadowes. ‘What then?’ ‘A dead—rather a dying—heart, I tell you, only you do not understand.’ Then, as impulsive men will often do, Meadowes told out all his sorrow to this man, just because he did not understand—it was the same relief as it would have been to talk aloud to himself. ‘Phil loves me no more; there’s the fact on’t—I doubt if ever he hath loved me. I’ve borne a measure of disgrace for him, I’ve renounced marriage for his sake, I’ve nurtured him delicately, and willed half my fortune to him. I’ve loved that boy foolishly all his days, and now he turns and tells me he doth not love me. Where doth the advantage lie of loving aught but oneself? There’s no return for love, and a fool I’ve been to sacrifice myself for any man. ’Tis the last lesson I needed. All these fine theories we dealt in in our youth, theories of “love” and “sacrifice” and so on, are purest moonshine. But with the last shreds of belief I had in them, goes my last shred of caring for life.’ ‘Tush, Meadowes! I must reason with you,’ said Prior. ‘A man at your time of life to speak thus! Come, Philip hath treated you shamefully, like the young scoundrel that he is. Let me advise you on this point. Bring him to his senses by some judicious coldness, and indeed this is not the first time I have urged you to marry. Now is the time; let no sentiments for a thankless knave like Philip keep you from it now; turn him off with a shilling—he deserves no more.’ Prior spoke earnestly, delighted to find some way of repaying the insult he had received at Phil’s hand. He flattered himself that he was making an impression, for his listener sat and listened to it all in silence. ‘Now, on the score of our old friendship—’ he went on, but Meadowes suddenly interrupted him. ‘There, I hate the very sight of you,’ he cried. ‘No friendship hath been betwixt us, only the bonds of iniquity, and heavy they’ve been. I’ll have it no more; I’ll go to hell alone—not in your company.’ Prior stood dumb with surprise; so long they had held together for evil, he could scarcely credit that the rupture had come at last. ‘But——’ he began. ‘No more, no more,’ said Meadowes, and he rose from his seat, and stretched out his hands in a sudden agonised way. ‘Don’t you know me yet, Prior? _I can’t be true._ Sooner or later I turn upon every man that leans on me. Man, I know myself—cruelly well; this is but the old story. You’ve served my turn, I need you no more, so I leave you. Yes, sink or swim for me. . . . You should have known better than to trust me.’ ‘I’ve done your dirty work these twenty years,’ said Prior, with unblushing veracity, ‘and now you forget it all.’ ‘Yes, I mean to forget.’ ‘But I am indeed hard pressed for money.’ ‘Well, find it elsewhere.’ ‘Is this final?’ ‘Quite.’