“Although you disapprove of the direction this force takes?”
“But I know nothing about its direction!” Felicia protested.
And presently, as from half-jesting their talk grew graver, she realized that the “force” was taking her into its confidence. It was as if he wanted to show her his direction—the battle under the flag. His whole visit had been an enigma; it now almost amazed her. She guessed how little sympathy was a necessity to him, and indeed he made no bid for sympathy. He sketched for her the political situation, his own attitude in it, the figures of his colleagues and their opponents, and calmly unravelled all the rather wilful knots her questions presented. She wondered, as his so unimpulsive frankness grew, whether he felt her at all as an individual, whether she were not, rather, a mere comfortable occasion on which he could take his ease and give himself the unwonted relief of thinking aloud. Whatever her office, she liked the force. He no doubt built with other people’s ideals and intended himself to inhabit the completed palace; yet she liked him. It was already late, and he had been there for almost two hours, when Mr. Merrick came in.
Felicia saw on her father’s face a mingling of amazement and gratification quickly composed into an over-emphatic dignity.
“I liked him ever so much,” said Felicia; when Geoffrey had taken his departure; “he is so different from what I thought.”
Gratification at the testimony to his daughter’s attractiveness warred in Mr. Merrick with the repudiating dignity. He stood firmly on the latter as he answered—
“I don’t care for the type. He does well enough for you to study”; and gratification rose again as he added: “That’s the worth of our position. We stand apart and let others come to us. We discriminate, judge, taste the flavour of life.”
“We certainly do little else!” said Felicia.
“Ah, my dear, what would you? What else for an awakened intelligence is there to do? You wouldn’t have me blindfold myself and rush into the political arena like this young ambitieux?—poor automaton! The fly on the wheel, fancying he drives the coach. We at least know that we are flies, and watch the fated turnings of the wheel with an understanding of our powerlessness.”
Felicia, wondering how he would manage such a rush, only murmured vaguely that she refused to believe herself a fly, and her father, tolerant of an accustomed flippancy, smiled, “Let us be duped by all means, but, as our exquisite Renan says, let us be knowing dupes.” He settled Geoffrey, in the phrase, to his own satisfaction.