"Don't let us be hard," pleaded Mrs. Maldon. And then, in a firmer,
prouder voice: "There will be no scandal in my family, Mr. Batchgrew,
as long as I live."
Mr. Batchgrew's answer was superb in its unconscious ferocity--
"That depends how long ye live."
His meaningless eyes rested on her with frosty impartiality, as he
reflected--
"I wonder how long she'll last."
He felt strong; he felt immortal. Exactly like Mrs. Maldon, he was
convinced that he was old only by the misleading arithmetic of years,
that he was not really old, and that there was a subtle and vital
difference between all other people of his age and himself. As for
Mrs. Maldon, he regarded her as a mere poor relic of an organism.
"At our age," Mrs. Maldon began, and paused as if collecting her
thoughts.
"At our age! At our age!" he repeated, sharply deprecating the phrase.
"At our age," said Mrs. Maldon, with slow insistence, "we ought not to
be hard on others. We ought to be thinking of our own sins."
But, although Mrs. Maldon was perhaps the one person on earth whom he
both respected and feared, Thomas Batchgrew listened to her injunction
only with rough disdain. He was incapable of thinking of his own sins.
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