“I think he is just a little barbarous,” he said. “Doesn’t he ever make your head ache?”
“No, I can’t say that he does,” said Maud slowly. “I think he is one of the most thoroughly satisfactory people.”
“He is so like a sort of mental highwayman sometimes,” said her brother. “He makes such sudden inroads on one’s intelligence. He catechizes one about the Propylæa. That is so trying, especially if you know nothing about it.”
Maud laughed.
“Oh well, if your purse is empty, you need not fear highwaymen,” she said.
A fortnight afterwards they both left for Marseilles by the same boat. She sailed on Sunday morning, and Arthur Wrexham and Manvers came down to the Piræus to see them off. Manvers and Tom took a few turns about the upper deck and talked, while Arthur sat down in Maud’s deck-chair and was steeped in gentle melancholy.
“So in about a year’s time you will see me,” said the former. “I shall be in London next winter. At present I feel like an Old Testament prophet in his first enthusiasm of prophecy. I wonder if they ever had any doubts about the conclusiveness of their remarks. I at least have none. I won’t exactly name the day when you will become a convert, but I will give you about a year. Consequently, when you see me next, our intercourse may be less discordant.”
“I hope it won’t,” remarked Tom; “and I don’t believe it will.”
“It’s always nice to disagree with people, I know,” said the other; “it adds a sauce to conversation. But I don’t mind abandoning that. You really will do some excellent work when you come round.”
“I am going to do an excellent Demeter mourning for Persephone,” said Tom.