There was not the least trace of consciousness in her manner, not the
faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her look, and, as he sat down,
the Doctor found himself admiring the delicate perfection of her deceit,
as he had sometimes admired a subtle _nuance_ in the performance of some
great French actress.

"You ought to hate me then," he said.

"Why? If I don't hate them?"

"Don't you hate your enemies?" asked Armine.

"No; that's a weakness in me. I never could and never shall. Something
silly inside of me invariably finds excuses for people, whatever they
are or do. I'm always saying to myself, 'They don't understand. If they
really knew all the circumstances, they wouldn't hate me. Perhaps they'd
even pity me.' Absurd! A mistake! I know that. Such feelings stand in
the way of success, because they prevent one striking out in one's own
defence. And if one doesn't strike out for oneself, nobody will strike
out for one."

"I don't think that's quite true," Armine said.

"Oh, yes, it is. If you're pugnacious, people think you're plucky, and
they're ready to stand up for you. Whereas, if you forgive easily,
you're not easily forgiven."

"If that is so," Armine said, "why don't you change your tactics?"