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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Why?" "Shows you've come to your senses," said Morewood, rapidly recovering from his lapse into civility. Stafford seemed willing, even anxious, to pursue the subject. The regimen at the Retreat was no doubt severe. "What do you mean by coming to my senses?" "Why, doing what any man does when he finds he's in love barring a sound reason against it." "And that is?" "Try his luck.
May was left to sit in silence for five minutes; then a pause in Dick's talk gave her time to touch him lightly on the arm and to say when he turned, "Yes, I will, and thank you." But she said nothing about the weaselly flirtation. Gellatly, Morewood the painter, and the honoured guest. Gellatly because she had expressed a desire to meet Lady May Gaston.
They entered the billiard-room, a long building that ran out from the west wing of the house. In the extreme end of it Morewood had extemporized a studio, attracted by the good light. "Give me a good top-light," he had said, "and I wouldn't change places with an arch-angel!" "Your lights, top or otherwise, are not such," Eugene remarked, "as to make it likely the berth will be offered you."
Next to believing in nobody, it was best, he said, to believe in Mahomet; there, he maintained, you got most out of your religion and gave least to it; and he defended the criterion with his usual uncompromising aggressiveness. Then Quisanté put his arms on the table, interrupted Morewood without apology, and began to talk.
The unusual length and the oratorical character of this warning were strong evidence of the painter's feelings. Marchmont nodded a grave and troubled assent. "Still if I see the thing one way, I can't act as if I saw it the other." "You mustn't see it one way," said Morewood irritably. "If you must be the slave of your conscience, hang it, you needn't be of your intellect. Ask the Dean there."
"Oh, I expect he's honest enough; and it's a splendid field for him," he answered, repeating the argument he had urged to Stafford himself. "Ayre," said Morewood aggressively, "you've driven that young man to perdition." "Bosh!" said Ayre. "He's not a sheep to be driven, and Rome isn't perdition. I did no more than give his thoughts a turn."
"No; I think I referred to it." "Do you suppose he's honest?" Morewood went on. "Why not?" asked Eugene. "I could never make out why he didn't go before. What do you say, Ayre?" Sir Roderick was a little troubled. This exact following of, or anyhow coincidence with, his advice seemed to cast a responsibility upon him.
"Of course I have half a dozen times." "No more than the other," said Stafford decisively. Morewood was about to speak, but Stafford went on quickly: "I have told you what belief is I could tell you what love is; you know no more the one than the other. But why should I? I doubt if you would understand. You think you couldn't be shocked. I should shock you. Let it be.
Morewood," the Dean advised mildly. "I know what he means," said Marchmont. "And, yes, I rather wish I could do it." Morewood began to instance the great men who had done it, including in his list many whom the common opinion that he praised would not have characterised at all in the same way. At each name Marchmont denied either the greatness or the pliancy.
Baxter withdrew into seclusion with a novel and a petticoat, Dick Benyon asked May to walk in the garden with him, and when she refused went off to play billiards with Morewood. May had pleaded letters to write and sat down to the task. The man who a little while ago had been the centre of attention was left alone.
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