But Stephen, with a countryman’s persistency, continued on his own line. He meant to be civil, but Rickie went cold round the mouth. For he had not even been angry with them. Until he was drunk, they had been dirty people—not his sort. Then the trivial injury recurred, and he had reeled to smash them as he passed. “And I will pay for everything,” was his refrain, with which the sighing of raindrops mingled. “You shan’t lose a penny, if only you let me free.” “You’ll pay for my coffin if you talk like that any longer! Will you, one, forgive my frightful behaviour; two, live with me?” For his only hope was in a cheerful precision. Stephen grew more agitated. He thought it was some trick. “I was saying I made an unspeakable mistake. Ansell put me right, but it was too late to find you. Don’t think I got off easily. Ansell doesn’t spare one. And you’ve got to forgive me, to share my life, to share my money.—I’ve brought you this photograph—I want it to be the first thing you accept from me—you have the greater right—I know all the story now. You know who it is?” “Oh yes; but I don’t want to drag all that in.” “It is only her wish if we live together. She was planning it when she died.” “I can’t follow—because—to share your life? Did you know I called here last Sunday week?” “Yes. But then I only knew half. I thought you were my father’s son.” Stephen’s anger and bewilderment were increasing. He stuttered. “What—what’s the odds if you did?” “I hated my father,” said Rickie. “I loved my mother.” And never had the phrases seemed so destitute of meaning. “Last Sunday week,” interrupted Stephen, his voice suddenly rising, “I came to call on you. Not as this or that’s son. Not to fall on your neck. Nor to live here. Nor—damn your dirty little mind! I meant to say I didn’t come for money. Sorry. Sorry. I simply came as I was, and I haven’t altered since.” “Yes—yet our mother—for me she has risen from the dead since then—I know I was wrong—” “And where do I come in?” He kicked the hassock. “_I_ haven’t risen from the dead. _I_ haven’t altered since last Sunday week. I’m—” He stuttered again. He could not quite explain what he was. “The man towards Andover—after all, he was having principles. But you’ve—” His voice broke. “I mind it—I’m—_I_ don’t alter—blackguard one week—live here the next—I keep to one or the other—you’ve hurt something most badly in me that I didn’t know was there.” “Don’t let us talk,” said Rickie. “It gets worse every minute. Simply say you forgive me; shake hands, and have done with it.” “That I won’t. That I couldn’t. In fact, I don’t know what you mean.”