“Damn the writer. The book will never go through, so you may as well sell it to me and start afresh in better company.” “That is your old advice.” “And my only advice. So long as you stay with Deborah you are a failure. You have had signal examples of it in the past. She will never write another book.” “Then if I sell you the book for the ring I may go back whence I came?” He laughed. “Scarcely so. If you want to be a success, and your life depends upon it, you must come over to my side and leave her.” “And that means despair following on depression.” “What matter? God’s kindness counteracts the devil’s cruelty.” “Do you know, Plucritus, I think I should admire you more if at times you spoke plainer?” “How so?” “Well, it would be rather a change to hear you speak the honest truth.” For a minute there was silence, then he got up and leant against the mantelpiece and looked into the curious burning fire. “It’s a pity,” he said, “for you and I were meant to be friends. It’s a pity we should be separated by the squalling of one insignificant woman.” “It may seem so to you,” I rejoined drily and somewhat at random, “but I had rather be separated from you by a woman, however insignificant, than joined to you by one however beautiful.” “You are not separated from me,” he retorted, his eyes flashing as he turned toward the table. “You are my prisoner, caught and trapped like all the rest, and if you enjoy a little more privilege it is simply because we are waiting the close of events. When the book fails for the last time she will follow you here, and here you can live, a source of torture and torment to each other for ever. If you will not bend your will I have the power to break it, and the only thing that springs from a broken will is pitiable weakness.” “I can at least wait the close of events,” I declared briefly. “And for the punishment, I doubt not I have strength enough to stand it.” “You talk like all ignorant people, with much assurance,” he said scornfully. “But you must know that here we never punish in proportion to the fault. We punish to suit our own convenience and pleasure. Look at these wizened, shrivelled slaves that wait on us. Think you they are serving a term of slavery? I tell you they are here unto eternity, though that little muddled world in which you lived turns its face away from the inevitable, and pitying its own weakness, talks of the mercy of God and winks at punishment.” “I think,” I observed sharply, repaying scorn for scorn, “you must descry the sin before you touch the sinner.” “And in case of unfair play,” he remarked slowly, leaning his hand upon the table and smiling across at me, “to whom do you intend to appeal?” I did not answer, since to this question I knew well there was no answer. But through the silence that followed a terrible cry rang. It was the first distinctly human sound I had heard since coming.