“Of course,” Holderness assented. “You can’t graft on to dead wood.”
“They live decent lives—most of them,” Macheson continued thoughtfully. “They can’t understand that any change is needed, no more can their landlords, or their clergy. A mechanical performance of the Christian code seems all that any one expects from them. Dick, it’s all they’re capable of. You can’t alter laws. You can’t create intelligence. You can’t teach these people spirituality.”
“As well try to teach ’em to fly,” Holderness answered. “I could have told you so before, if it had been of any use. What about these Welshmen, though?”
“It’s hysteria,” Macheson declared. “If you can get through the hide, you can make the emotions run riot, stir them into a frenzy. It’s a debauch. I’ve been there to see. The true spiritual life is partly intellectual.”
“What are you going to do now?” Holderness asked.
“I don’t know,” Macheson answered. “I haven’t finished yet. Dick, curse all women!”
The giant looked thoughtful.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
Macheson swung himself from the table. He walked up and down the room.
“It isn’t serious,” he declared. “It isn’t even definite. But it’s like a perfume, or a wonderful chord of music, or the call of the sea to an inland-bred viking! It’s under my heel, Dick, but I can’t crush it. I came away from Leicestershire because I was afraid.”