Page:The Novels and Tales of Henry James, Volume 1 (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907).djvu/457

 to me, and I don't believe it 's pleasant to Mallet. I know they 're tremendous—I know I shall never repay them. I 'm bankrupt, bankrupt! Do you know what that means?"

The poor lady gazed in dismay, and Rowland sharply interfered. "Oh, spare your mother your wild figures! Don't you see you 're frightening her half to death?"

"Frightening her? She may as well then be frightened first as last. Do I frighten you, mother?"

"Oh, Roderick, what do you mean?" she impatiently whimpered. "Mr. Mallet, what 's he talking about?"

"I'm talking about this," Roderick replied—"that I 'm an angry, savage, disappointed, miserable man. I mean that I can't do a stroke of work nor think a profitable thought. I mean that I 'm in a state of helpless rage and grief and shame. Helpless, helpless—that 's what it is. You can't help me, poor mother—not with kisses nor tears nor prayers. Mary can't help me—not for all the honour she does me nor all the big books on art that she pores over. Mallet can't help me—not with all his money nor all his good example nor all his friendship, which I 'm so immensely well aware of: not with all it multiplied a thousand times and repeated to all eternity. I thought you would help me, you and Mary; that 's why I sent for you. But you can't—don't think it! The sooner you give up the idea the better for you. Give up being proud of me too; there 's nothing left of me to be proud of. A year or two ago I don't say, for I myself then 423