"Perhaps not at the time; it marks the contrast more strongly." He paused a moment; how could he explain his feelings without startling her? And yet he felt some explanation of this enigmatical sentence was needed. "You see," he continued, "I have avoided society for years. I suppose I have become brutalized. I have lost the habit of concealing what I think, or doing what bores me. When I see you with such people as the Hurlstones, or Mrs. Van Winkle, or these Planters, my contempt of the world is increased. I want to talk to you or to go right away. If I enter into general conversation, I am sure to say something which will offend them."
"So little self-restraint? That comes from having shut yourself away from people, and having had your own way too long. All the men I have heard you speak so slightingly of, because they devote their whole time and energies to amassing big fortunes, lead really healthier lives than you do. They rub up against all manner of people; they give and take."
"They take more than they give," he said, with a sneer; "and because they rub up against all manner of people, they become callous. Is it well to become callous? to grow indifferent—almost blind to evil? to pass through life shrugging one's shoulders? Well, perhaps it is. And yet, I've had enough to make me callous. But one can't alter one's nature."
"That is the defence of every one who gives in," she returned. "And it is horribly weak—quite unworthy of a man, I think. I am a great hero-worshipper, and all my heroes fight something—either their own passions, or something else they are resolved to conquer. And, as to growing callous, I don't see that any one need become so because he mixes with his fellow-creatures, even the very worst. We have a Great Example of that; and all the devoted workers among the poor of big cities do not lose their sense of right and wrong because they are pitiful and forbearing."
Here Mrs. Courtly, who was in front, turned round. They had reached the village, or rather small agglomeration of houses of the lower middle class—as they would be called in England—which were clustered around the church. The bell was ringing; one or two elderly women, a young girl, a pale-faced man carrying some books, were hurrying along. Mrs. Courtly said,
"Here I leave you; and I give Mr. Laffan into your charge, Miss Ballinger. What! Quintin, are you coming with me to church? Well, wonders will never cease. Good-by, all of you, till tea-time."
And so the bright, genial little lady, with her unwonted escort, left the rest of the party to find their own way home.
Quintin Ferrars had not entered a church for years. What prompted him to leave Grace, and accompany his friend? Was it the girl's words? Was it Mr. Laffan's joining her? Was it some inexplicable working of conscience?
CHAPTER XIII
A man who in middle age falls passionately in love, after many bitter disappointments, is as liable to do foolish things, in this same matter, as a raw youth of twenty. He is blind once more. Experience has taught him nothing. His hard, cruel insight into the folly and weakness of others is now of no avail. It may be that he is deceived in the woman; or, as in this case, that his worldly wisdom unaccountably fails him just when it should be of most service to protect him from committing an irretrievable error.