“My soul!” said Julian carelessly. “Oh! it’s all right.”
Hazlet then began to look at Julian’s pictures.
“Ah,” he observed with a deep sigh, “I’m sorry to see that you have the portrait of so unsound, so dangerous a man as Mr Vere.”
“We’ll drop that topic, please, Hazlet,” said Julian, “as we’re not likely to agree upon it.”
“Have you ever read one word that Mr Vere ever wrote?” asked Kennedy.
“Well, yes; at least no, not exactly: but still one may judge, you know; besides, I’ve seen extracts of his works.”
“Extracts!” answered Kennedy scornfully; “extracts which often attribute to him the very sentiments which he is opposing. But it isn’t worth arguing with one of your school, who have the dishonesty to condemn writers whom you are incapable of understanding, on the faith of extracts which they haven’t even read.”
The wrathful purpling of Hazlet’s sallow countenance portended an explosion of orthodox spleen, but Julian gently interposed in time to save the devoted Kennedy from a few unmeasured anathemas.
“Hush!” he said, “none of the odium theologicum, please, lest the mighty shade of Aeschylus smile at you in scorn. Do drop the subject, Hazlet.”
“Very well, if you like, Home; but I must deliver my conscience, you know. But really, Julian, you are not very Christian in your other pictures.”