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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Make me realise that I had a sickly, morbid, rotten imagination heh? Come now, Murchison, why not say frankly that you packed me off to Westgate to get rid of what you considered an acute form of hysteria?" The Father was quite unmoved by this attack. "Come now, Guildea," he retorted, "what did you expect me to think? I saw no indication of hysteria in you. I never have.
I shall continue to benefit the world without loving it, and it will continue to accept the benefits without loving me. That's all as it should be." He drank his coffee. Then he added, rather aggressively: "I have neither time nor inclination for sentimentality." When Guildea let Father Murchison out, he followed the Father on to the doorstep and stood there for a moment.
"I'll convince you by more than my manner, or I'll not try to convince you at all," said Guildea. When they parted that evening, he said, "I'll write to you in a day or two probably. I think the proof I am going to give you has been accumulating during my absence. But I shall soon know." Father Murchison was extremely puzzled as he sat on the top of the omnibus going homeward.
"And you'll not find him there now, I feel sure." "H'm!" ejaculated Guildea. "What a precious weakling you think me, Murchison." As he spoke he strode forward more quickly, as if moved to emphasise his sensation of bodily vigour. "A weakling no. But anyone who uses his brain as persistently as you do yours must require an occasional holiday." "And I required one very badly, eh?"
This action caused the beard to stir and look peculiarly aggressive. The Father suddenly chuckled softly. "Why's that?" cried Guildea, letting his chin drop down on his breast and looking at his guest sharply. "I was thinking it would have to be a crisis indeed that could make you cling to your butler's affection for assistance." Guildea smiled too. "You're right. It would. Here he comes."
Guildea nodded his head gloomily. "I don't," he said, "I don't. That's just it. That's the curious part of it, that I " He broke off deliberately, got up and stretched. "I'll have a pipe, too," he said. He went over to the mantelpiece, got his pipe, filled it and lighted it.
"There might be, of course," he said, after a pause. "Human nature is weak, engagingly weak, Guildea. And you're inclined to flout it. I could understand a certain class of lady the lion-hunting, the intellectual lady, seeking you. Your reputation, your great name " "Yes, yes," Guildea interrupted, rather irritably "I know all that, I know."
At nine I'll be with you. Good-night." When he was on the pavement he felt relieved. He turned round, saw Guildea stepping into his passage, and shivered. Father Murchison walked all the way home to Bird Street that night. He required exercise after the strange and disagreeable evening he had spent, an evening upon which he looked back already as a man looks back upon a nightmare.
"Look about the room," said Guildea. "What do you see?" The Father glanced round the room, slowly and carefully. "Nothing unusual. You do not mean to tell me there is any appearance of " "Oh, no, no, there's no conventional, white-robed, cloud-like figure. Bless my soul, no! I haven't fallen so low as that." He spoke with considerable irritation. "Look again."
For some reason, which he could not explain to himself, the pleasure which Father Murchison felt in hearing the first part of his friend's final remark was lessened, was almost destroyed, by the last sentence. He walked towards the City that night, deep in thought, remembering and carefully considering the first interview he had with Guildea in the latter's house a year and a half before.
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