So Urquhart began his plain tale, and as he got into it the contrast between it and himself became revolting, even to him. A hale man might have brazened it out with a better air. A little of the romance with which it had begun, which indeed alone made it tolerable, would have been about it still. A sicker man than Urquhart, who made a hard death for himself, would have given up the battle, thrown himself at James's feet and asked no quarter. Urquhart was not so far gone as that; a little bluster remained. He did it badly. He didn't mean to be brutal; he meant to be honest; but it sounded brutal, and James could hardly endure it. He saw, too, as the poor chap went on, that he was getting angry, and doing himself harm. That was so. Every step he took in his narrative sharpened the edge of the fate which cut him off. He would have made a success of it if he could--but he had been really broken before he broke his back, and the knowledge exasperated him. So he took refuge in bluster, made himself out worse than he was, and in so doing distorted Lucy. James was in torment, remembering what he must. He felt her arms close about his neck; he felt the rush of her words: "And oh, darling, I thought it was you--of course I thought so--and I was proud and happy--that you should like me so much! I looked at myself in the glass afterwards. I thought, 'You must be rather pretty.' ..." Oh, Heaven, and this mocking, dying devil, with his triumphs! "Say no more, man, say no more," broke from him. "I understand the rest. I have nothing to say to you. You did badly--you did me a wrong--and her too. But it's done with, and she (God bless her!) can take no harm. How can she? She acted throughout with a pure mind. She thought that you were me, and when she found that you weren't--well, well, take your pride in that. I give it up to you. Why shouldn't I? She gave you her innocent heart. I don't grudge you." "You needn't," said Urquhart, "since I'm a dead man. But if I had been a living one, who knows--?" He laughed bitterly, and stung the other. "You forget one thing," said James, with something of his old frozen calm. "For all that you knew, ten minutes after you had left my house that day--the first of them--I might have benefited by your act--and you been none the wiser, nor I any the worse off. And there would have been an end of it." Urquhart considered the point. James could have seen it working in his poor, wicked, silly mind, but kept his face away. "Yes," Urquhart said, "you might; but you didn't." Then he laughed again--not a pleasant sound. "Man," said James indignant, "don't you see? What robs me of utterance is that I _have_ benefited by what you have done." "It's more than you have deserved, in my opinion," Urquhart retorted. "I'll ask you not to forget that she has loved me, and doesn't blame me. And I'll ask you not to forget that it is I who am telling you all this, and not she." It was his last bite.