“Well, give me a couple of minutes,” said the outraged Martin. “We always have an interval after the rot before we begin to talk. Otherwise, you know, we always laugh. One always laughs at anything abrupt. Don’t you know the story of the man who was suddenly told his wife was dead? Just like that. He said, ‘Oh, how shocking!’ and burst into shrieks of laughter. And he was really devoted to her, and never smiled again for years.”
Helen gave up all attempts at gravity, and the two foolish twins laughed till they were completely exhausted, while the Canadian canoe went slowly circling round and round down the river.
So they landed and lunched, as Martin refused to drag the boat any more till he had eaten and by degrees recovered themselves. Then, taking to the canoe again, they paddled and talked.
“It has been dreadful at home, Martin,” said she. “Father hardly speaks at all. He has been very gentle since that scene with Frank and me, yet even that was hardly so bad as his silence and quietness now. He is suffering horribly, too; I am sure of it. Sometimes I see him looking at me with a sort of appeal in his eyes like a dumb animal. That is the worst of all; I feel such a brute.”
“You suffer, too,” said Martin, quickly.
“I know; but though they all—Uncle Rupert, Lady Sunningdale—think I am right, that doesn’t make me feel less of a brute. Besides, there is no ‘right’ about it. I can’t give him up, and father can’t bear it. And every evening he uses the prayer for Jews, Turks, and infidels.”
Martin frowned.
“That is not good manners,” he said, “with you there.”
“Oh, Martin, manners don’t come into it. The truth of father’s beliefs is so overwhelmingly real to him that he can’t think of anything else. That light is so strong that he can see nothing but it. It is soberly the whole world to him.”
“But it isn’t as if Frank was immoral,” said Martin.