He thrust his hand in an access of tenderness into his breast.
“Monsieur,” said a low, grave voice in his ear, “is in need of sympathy.”
He started, and turned about angrily. At his elbow was seated that third member of the late trio to whom the others had appeared to pay deference. This man had not followed his companions, it seemed, but had remained behind when they walked away.
In the very motion of resenting the interference, something in the nobility of the stranger’s manner gave Ned pause. The anger died from his features, gradually, in a little silence that succeeded.
“Very well, monsieur,” he said at length, quite gently. “You are very far from meaning impertinence, I see. I answer you, All men need sympathy.”
“Monsieur,” said the stranger, “that admission is the basis of our new religion of humanity.”
He leaned forward, smiling with a great sweetness. His air somehow conveyed to Ned the impression of a conscious strength that rather enjoyed indulging in itself a dormant condition of faculty, sure that it could summon up at will mental forces irresistible to any opposed to it.
“Is it new?” said Ned. “I seem to recall a hint of it in the Gospels.”
“The man Christ,” said the stranger, “was a virgin. His partisanship was necessarily limited. He was never blinded by, but always to, passion.”
“The passion of love?”