But on that Brion, returning to an instant seriousness, put a definite veto.
‘No further,’ said he. ‘I prithee from this moment let the whole question drop. I say it with all earnestness, and do entreat thee to let it rest as final.’
The other nodded: ‘Well, if you wish it’—and at that moment Clerivault, coming in with a faggot to lay on the embers, ended the discussion.
‘Signor Clerivault,’ said Raleigh, ‘is not beauty, in your opinion, a question of taste?’
Clerivault, depositing the log in its place, came frigidly upright.
‘I have no claim to a foreign title, Sir.’
‘I should have said Master.’
The paragon bowed stately:—
‘Sir, how taste?’
‘Why, thus. I call a woman beautiful: another shakes his head. His eyes cannot see it; mine do. Therefore her beauty is not intrinsically in her, but in mine eyes. There is no standard to judge by.’