Moreover, he could see clearly that Mary's interpretation of this story was simple; namely, that he had fallen into temptation, and that the shock of his parting from the lady concerned, followed by her sudden and violent death, had bred illusions in his mind.

In short, that he was slightly crazy; therefore, to be well scolded, pitied, and looked after rather than sincerely blamed.

The position was scarcely heroic, or one that any man would choose to fill; still, he felt that it had its conveniences; that, at any rate, it must be accepted.
"All these questions are very much a matter of opinion," he said; then added, unconsciously reflecting one of Stella's sayings, "and I daresay that the truth is for each of us exactly what each of us imagines it to be." "I was always taught that the truth is the truth, quite irrespective of our vague and often silly imaginings; the difficulty being to find out exactly what it is." "Perhaps," answered Morris, declining argument which is always useless between people are are determined not to sympathise with each other's views.

"I knew that you would think my story foolish.

I should never have troubled you with it, had I not felt it to be my duty, for naturally the telling of such a tale puts a man in a ridiculous light." "I don't think you ridiculous, Morris; I think that you are suffering slightly from shock, that is all.