She was richer in personal power for that experience; but she was not
grateful for it nor for his devotion."

"You mean, in fact, that I--for you make the personal application--shall
be better able henceforth to win men's love, because--ah, surely, Dr.
Marmion, you do not dignify this impulse, this foolishness of yours, by
the name of love!" She smiled a little satirically at the fingers I had
kissed.

I was humiliated, and annoyed with her and with myself, though, down
in my mind, I knew that she was right. "I mean," said I, "that I can
understand how men have committed suicide because of just such things.
My wonder is that Anson, poor devil! did not do it." I knew I was
talking foolishly.

"He hadn't the courage, my dear sir. He was gentlemanly enough to die,
but not to be heroic to that extent. For it does need a strong dash of
heroism to take one's own life. As I conceive it, suicide would have
been the best thing for him when he sinned against the code. The world
would have pitied him then, would have said, He spared us the trial of
punishing him. But to pay the vulgar penalty of prison--ah!"

She shuddered and then almost coldly continued: "Suicide is an act of
importance; it shows that a man recognises, at least, the worthlessness
of his life. He does one dramatic and powerful thing; he has an instant
of great courage, and all is over. If it had been a duel in which, of
intention, he would fire wide, and his assailant would fire to kill, so
much the better; so much the more would the world pity. But either is
superior, as a final situation, than death with a broken heart--I suppose
that is possible?--and disgrace, in a hospital."