"Yes, yes—but not the way they do. A precious johnny-cake of an art critic who wears thumb-rings and doesn't wash behind his ears...."
I hadn't been listening very attentively. A light was breaking in upon me.
"You meet a good many priests at Mrs. Hepworth's, don't you?"
Ingram raised his hands expressively. "My dear Prentice, at all hours—dinner, tea and lunch—bishops, deans, canons, monsignori. I don't know half their titles."
"I gather you don't find them sympathetic."
"Prentice, I just writhe."
"Aren't they civil?"
"Oh, intensely! It's their mental attitude that maddens me. So perpetually on guard, so impermeable to argument: bearing the condemnation of the massed intellect of Europe with a pitying smile, denying words their plain significance. What is it, Prentice? Is every one else really wrong? Does to be born at Guipuscoa instead of at Epworth make all the difference? Do these men know something that you and I don't? Sometimes in their company I almost feel I'm under mesmeric influence."
"Perhaps you are. I've always suspected you of being mediumistic. But, tell me, don't you suspect anything from all this?"
"Suspect—what?"