n'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."

Then Rickie began a new appeal--not to pity, for now he was in no mood
to whimper. For all its pathos, there was something heroic in this
meeting. "I warn you to stop here with me, Stephen. No one else in the
world will look after you. As far as I know, you have never been really
unhappy yet or suffered, as you should do, from your faults. Last night
you nearly killed yourself with drink. Never mind why I'm willing to
cure you. I am willing, and I warn you to give me the chance. Forgive me
or not, as you choose. I care for other things more."

Stephen looked at him at last, faintly approving. The offer was
ridiculous, but it did treat him as a man.

"Let me tell you of a fault of mine, and how I was punished for it,"
continued Rickie. "Two years ago I behaved badly to you, up at the
Rings. No, even a few days before that. We went for a ride, and I
thought too much of other matters, and did not try to understand you.
Then came the Rings, and in the evening, when you called up to me most
kindly, I never answered. But the ride was the beginning. Ever since
then I have taken the world at second-hand. I have bothered less and
less to look it in the face--until not only you, but every one else has
turned unreal. Never Ansell: he kept away, and somehow saved himself.
But every one else. Do you remember in one of Tony Failing's books,
'Cast bitter bread upon the waters, and after many days it really does
come back to you'? This had been true of my life; it will be equally
true of a drunkard's, and I warn you to stop with me."

"I can't stop after that cheque," said Stephen more gently. "But I do
remember the ride. I was a bit bored myself."

Agnes, who had not been seeing to the breakfast, chose this moment to
call from the passage. "Of course he can't stop," she exclaimed. "For
better or worse, it's settled. We've none of us altered