"Well," she said, somewhat angrily, "and suppose you do! What then! Who are you, that you should judge?"
He winced slightly, but then shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, of course, of course; I've heard all about that. But it won't do, in practice."
"Won't it? Let us put the cases plainly, for comparison's sake: You are a young man that has had more than his share of selfish indulgence; you have thrown aside all scruples and done everything and anything you pleased. Your actual transgressions of the commandments we will waive; there is a greater crime: you have allowed yourself to become a soured, bitter, heartless creature, fit only to disseminate scorn and distaste. She, the woman in the case, once, we will say, allowed her senses to oust her sense. Ever since, she has suffered agonies of regret. Unlike the man she has not told herself that she might as well let fate have it's play out. She is as sweet as the dew of Maytime, and the slight trace of sadness only needs the touch of love to fall and almost fade. I think she loves you; I am not sure--she is a woman, and it is hard to say. As for you, in spite of everything, you love her. You coward! Why don't you ask her again? She will tell you that it is impossible, of course. She will say there was once another. Then, unless you are a greater coward than I think you, you will tell her that compared to yourself she is as pure as the driven snow, and you want nothing, only her forgiveness for yourself."
He was still stubborn. "It is the old story," he said, "one has heard it all before. The woman is to be put on a par with the man; there is no actual difference in ethics. But I once saw it tried; I shudder when I think of it. To be sure--the woman was notorious."
"Ah! How can you compare the cases? And yet--" she laughed a trifle bitterly,--"in this case the man is notorious." She watched him wince under the callousness of triumph.
"Think," she continued, "what she could be to you, how she could help you; how you could help each other! The happy days and dreams together, the planning for new artistic achievements, the sweet companionship of a soul capable of understanding! Instead of--what? Fierce flights into forgetfulness; pursuits of vanishing pleasures, palling desires; short triumphs in art merged into long revulsions from life! It seems, to me, a fair exchange!" She rose, as if to end the subject. He put her shawl about her shoulders, and they walked slowly back to the village, talking of other things, gaily, lightly, insincerely.