“One sacrifices so much,” she murmured, “on the altars of the modern Goddess. We live in such a tiny compass,—nothing ever happens. It is only psychologically that one’s emotions can be reached at all. Events are quite out of date. I am speaking from a woman’s point of view.”
“You should have lived,” he said, smiling, “in the days of Joan of Arc.”
“No doubt,” she answered, “I should have found that equally dull. What I was endeavouring to do was, first of all to plead some justification for wanting to know you. For a woman there is nothing left but the study of personalities.”
“Mine,” he answered with a faint gleam in his eyes, “is very much at your service.”
“I am going to take you at your word,” she warned him.
“You will be very much disappointed. I am perfectly willing to be dissected, but the result will be inadequate.”
She leaned back amongst the cushions and looked at him thoughtfully.
“Listen,” she said; “I can tell you something of your history, as you will see. I want you to fill in the blanks.”
“Mine,” he murmured, “will be the greater task. My life is a record of blank places. The history is to come.”
“This,” she said, “is the extent of my knowledge. You were the second son of Sir Lionel Matravers, and you have been an orphan since you were very young. You were meant to take Holy Orders, but when the time came you declined. At Oxford you did very well indeed. You established a brilliant reputation as a classical scholar, and you became a fellow of St. John’s.