ad with
an incontrollable impulse of pity; his hair was matted and dull as
though it, had not been brushed for years.

"I c-can't explain it, even to myself, Marcella. But I--I th-think it
w-was because I g-got a bit huffy with the idea th-that I was depending
on you for everything. I f-felt as if I was tied to your apron strings.
I felt as if I was being a g-good little b-b-boy, you know. So I thought
I'd kick a bit! But I w-was trying damned hard before. You know I was."

She knit her brows and said, very slowly, as though she had not known
the end of the sentence when she began to speak.

"Louis--don't you--perhaps--think it's wrong--to try so hard? I mean,
it's morbid to be always saying 'I'm a drunkard. If I don't keep myself
keyed up every minute I'll fall--' Don't you think it would be better if
you forgot all about it, and just said, 'I'm Louis Farne, the biggest
thing that ever was in the annals of humanity.' I don't know, but that
seems more sensible to me. You see, you're rather a self-willed sort of
person, really. You like to have you own way. Then why on earth not have
your own way with whisky."

He stared at her and started in surprise, his jaw dropping. She looked
at the streaks of dust and blood on his face, through which his tears
had made blurred runnels.

"I n-never thought of that before. Of course you're right--I ought to
have thought of it--even from the point of view of a psychologist."

"I don't think it's anything to do with any 'ologists at all. It's just
common sense. Louis, I've been thinking a lot this week. You know, when
father used to get--ill--no, drunk (Why should I be afraid to tell the
truth, in spite of your sneers about poor father?) I was too wee to know
very much. But knowing him as I do, I'm certain he tried and tried
again. After mother died he left whisky alone, though he still had it in
the house. He took to reading philosophy instead. You see, he was not
like you. There was a hardness, a bravery in him that you haven't got.
You have cussedness instead and cussedness is a thing you can never be
sure of. You see," she went on, flushing a little, and suddenly tossing
her head proudly, "you don't understand this, and it may sound most
appalling snobbishness to you. But my father's people have always been
rulers--little kings--fighters, while yours have been just ordinary,
protected folk. My people have had to fight for everything, even their
food, their lands, their home.