“Ah yes—she’s proud of it. I don’t know—it was rather good.”
“What was it about?”
“Let me see.” And he seemed to make an effort to remember. “Oh yes—it was about myself.” Paul gave an irrepressible groan for the disappearance of such a production, and the elder man went on: “Oh but you should write it—you should do me.” And he pulled up—from the restless motion that had come upon him; his fine smile a generous glare. “There’s a subject, my boy: no end of stuff in it!”
Again Paul was silent, but it was all tormenting. “Are there no women who really understand—who can take part in a sacrifice?”
“How can they take part? They themselves are the sacrifice. They’re the idol and the altar and the flame.”
“Isn’t there even one who sees further?” Paul continued.
For a moment St. George made no answer; after which, having torn up his letters, he came back to the point all ironic. “Of course I know the one you mean. But not even Miss Fancourt.”
“I thought you admired her so much.”
“It’s impossible to admire her more. Are you in love with her?” St. George asked.
“Yes,” Paul Overt presently said.