"I was never less heretical in my life," cried Percival. "State your case, Bess; I'll give you the precedence."
Vivian turned towards the dark corner.
"It is Miss Murray's difficulty, is it?" he said, with a look of some interest. "I shall be glad to hear it."
The girl in the dark corner stirred a little uneasily, but she spoke with no trepidation of manner, and her voice was clear and cool.
"The question," she said, "is whether a man may write articles in a daily paper, advocating views which are not his own, simply because they are the views of the editor. I call it dishonesty."
"So do I," said Kitty, warmly.
"Dishonesty? Not a bit of it," rejoined Percival. "The writer is the mouthpiece of the paper, which advocates certain views; he sinks his individuality; he does not profess to explain his own opinions. Besides, after all, what is dishonesty? Why should people erect honesty into such a great virtue? It is like truth-telling and—peaches; nobody wants them out of their proper season; they are never good when they are forced."
"I don't see any analogy between truth-telling and peaches," said the calm voice from the corner.
"You tell the truth all the year round, don't you, Bess?" said Kitty, with a little malice.
"But we are mortal, and don't attempt to practice exotic virtues," said Percival, mockingly. "I see no reason why I should not flourish upon what is called dishonesty, just as I see no reason why I should not tell lies. It is only the diseased sensibility of modern times which condemns either."