Page 57 of Faceless

“Then why does he smuggle morals into the book at all? He cannot account for them within his own framework. He wants moral approval to be more than custom, and he cannot tell us how.”

“Hume would answer that moral sentiments arise from sympathy, and that sympathy is a natural feature of the human constitution which he takes as given. Whether that answer satisfies —”

“It does not satisfy.”

“I was coming to that.”

“Come to it faster.”

He almost laughed. He kept his voice flat. “It does not satisfy. You are right about that. His account of the transition from is to ought is the weakest part of the Treatise, and he knows it. He addresses it by announcing that he will not address it, which is, as you say, a convenient manoeuvre.”

She was quiet for longer than he had expected.

“You are right about that.”

“What I just said?”

“What you just conceded.”

“I conceded nothing. I agreed with you.”

“You had been building an elegant case for his defence.”

“I was pointing out that your case against him was broader than his actual claims. On the specific point you were making, you were correct from the first sentence. I did not concede. I caught up.”

“I had not expected that.”

“What had you expected?”

“I had expected you to capitulate without meaning it and find a different angle when I was not looking.”

“That would have been unsatisfying for both of us.”

Then she laughed. Short, surprised, entirely unlike the polite sounds she made over smaller amusements — and the laugh that answered it rose in him before he had decided to give it. He caught it and choked on it.

She heard his correction. He was certain of it.

Supper had gone cold. He had not touched his knife in twenty minutes.

“The factor came again this morning,” she said, at last. “He had questions about the east field drainage.”

“Angus told me. I sent the instructions down.”

“He seems reassured.” She ate a few bites in silence. “He asked again whether the laird might be receiving callers before the quarter.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That he might not.” She set her fork down. “I told him you had been unwell. I hope that was acceptable.”

“It was.” He turned his glass on the table. “Thank you.”

She did not answer him at once, and the silence had a texture to it that was not comfortable. He had thanked her for managing his affairs — receiving his callers, deflecting his obligations, standing in the place he could not stand himself. She had accepted the thanks without comment. The acceptance was its own form of indictment.

“I had a letter from my family today,” she said.

She had not mentioned her family in the evenings before — not directly, not as a subject, only obliquely. He heard the difference.

“I am glad,” he said, and meant it.