He asked many questions which were easy enough to answer; for he had no worldly wisdom himself, and did not look for it in other people. And then he related his own adventure—the great incident of his life—his visit to Paris.
“A matter of business,” he explained. “Some duplicates—one or two of my prints which I had decided to part with. Miriam also wished me to see into some small money matters of her own. Her guardian, John Turner, you may remember, resides in Paris. A schoolfellow of my own, by the way. But our ways diverged later in life. I found him unchanged—a kind heart—always a kind heart. He attempts to conceal it, as many do, under a flippant, almost a profane, manner of speech. Brutum fulmen. But I saw through it—I saw through it.”
And the rector beamed on Loo through his spectacles with an innocent delight in a Christian charity which he mistook for cunning.
“You see,” he went on, “we have spent a little money on the rectory. To-morrow you will see that we have made good the roof of the church. One could not ask the villagers to contribute, knowing that the children want boots and scarcely know the taste of jam. Yes, John Turner was very kind to me. He found me a buyer for one of my prints.”
The rector broke off with a sharp sigh and drank his tea.
“We shall never miss it,” he added, with the hopefulness of those who can blind themselves to facts. “Come, tell me your impressions of France.”
“I have been there before,” replied Loo, with a curtness so unusual as to make Miriam glance at him. “I have been there before, you know. It would be more interesting to hear your own impressions, which must be fresher.”
Miriam knew that he did not want to speak of France, and wondered why. But Marvin, eager to talk of his favourite study, seized the suggestion in all innocence. He had gone to Paris as he had wandered through life, with the mind of a child, eager, receptive, open to impression. Such minds pass by much that is of value, but to one or two conclusions they bring a perceptive comprehension which is photographic in its accuracy.
“I have followed her history with unflagging interest since boyhood,” he said, “but never until now have I understood France. I walked through the streets of Paris and I looked into the faces of the people, and I realised that the astonishing history of France is true. One can see it in those faces. The city is brilliant, beautiful, unreal. The reality is in the faces of the people. Do you remember what Wellington said of them half a century ago? ‘They are ripe,’ he said, ‘for another Napoleon.’ But he could not see that Napoleon on the political horizon. And that is what I saw in their faces. They are ripe for something—they know not what.”
“Did John Turner tell you that?” asked Loo, in an eager voice. “He who has lived in Paris all his life?”