"
"You were not worth the best sort of woman," I said to him. "You had no
chance with Ellen Meriwether."
"No, but at least every fellow is worth his own fight with himself. I
wanted to be a gentleman once more. Oh, a man may mate with a woman of
any color--he does, all over the world. He may find a mistress in any
nationality of his own color, or a wife in any class similar to his
own--he does, all over the world. But a sweetheart, and a wife, and a
woman--when a fellow even like myself finds himself honestly gone like
that--when he begins to fight inside himself, old India against old
England, renegade against gentleman--say, that's awfully bitter--when he
sees the other fellow win. You won--"
"No," said I, "I did not win. You know that perfectly well. There is no
way in the world that I can win. All I can do is to keep parole--well,
with myself, I suppose."
"You touch me awfully close," he mused again. "You play big and fair.
You're a fighting man and a gentleman and--excuse me, but it's true--an
awful ass all in one. You're such an ass I almost hesitate to play the
game with you."
"Thank you," said I. "But now take a very stupid fellow's advice.
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