"But surely——What about Mr. Ffoulkes? You don't think that he——?"
Paul jumped to his feet and thrust his hands into his pockets with an impatient movement.
"Everard Ffoulkes! The cowboy bishop! Isn't it funny how unerringly even good criticism puts his finger on the one true thing, and declares 'That couldn't happen.' Why he's 'vécu'—'erlebt,' every word and action of him. I've ridden with him, camped with him, bunked with him, and even prayed with him."
Althea regarded him awhile, through the smoke haze, with eyes narrowed to slits.
"Mr. Ingram," she said, flinging her cigarette away, "I'm going to help you publish your book, but I'm going to hurt you first. Now—are you ready?"
"Go right ahead."
"You'll have to modify it. Oh! don't bristle and scold. I know I've touched a nerve. But on your own confession you've lived away from the world a long time, and you have no conception of"—she paused for a strong enough word—"the impregnable determination of our race that certain things shall not be—I won't say discussed, but even postulated. It's too strong for the strongest of us. The Inquisition and the Index are indulgent beside it. It's begun to hurt social progress; but even social progress has to mark time and wait its pleasure. Right in the midst of our civilization, Mr. Ingram, a great, rough-hewn granite god uprears his bulk. I always imagine him something like the Easter Island deity you have to pass on your right going into the Museum—no forehead, cavernous eye-sockets, vast nostrils and mouth—Hoa-haka-nana-ia: the god of things as they must be supposed to be. And his thighs and stomach are simply larded with the smoke of intellectual sacrifice. There is a legend, you know, that no great literary work, once carried through, has failed to somehow or another reach the world. I fancy Hoa could throw some light on that tale. Shall we go on the balcony? It's rather warm in here."
She put her hand to her forehead as he followed her down the room. Outside the rain had ceased, and the September night was clear and fresh. Across the nobly planned street, the broadest and most effective prospect in London, the windows of the great stuccoed mansions were dark and shuttered, with only here and there a pale glow in fanlight or upper window, but the many storied Langham Hotel, filled with trans-Atlantic birds of passage, closed the vista cheerily, and a broad flare of light round the corner showed where Regent Street and the shops and restaurants began.
"Do you know French well?" she asked, presently.
"Only everyday French and a few curiosities I'm trying to forget."