The Englishman sat with one lean hand resting on the table and watched. He knew that some reply was expected, but in face of that knowledge he chose to remain silent. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek. The inscrutable Provincial had met a foeman worthy of his steel at last. His strange magnetic influence threw itself vainly against a will as firm as his own, and he felt that his incidental effects, dramatic and conversational, fell flat. Instantly he became interested in Christian Vellacott.
“I need hardly remind a man of your discrimination, Mr. Vellacott,” he continued tentatively, “that there are two sides to every question.”
The Englishman smiled and moved slightly in his chair, drawing in his feet and leaning forward.
“Implying, I presume,” he said lightly, “that in this particular question you are on one side and I upon the other.”
“Alas! it seems so.”
Vellacott leant back in his chair again and crossed his legs.
“In my turn,” he said quietly, “I must remind you, monsieur, that I am a journalist.”
The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly and waited for his companion to continue. His silence and the momentary motion of his eyebrows, which in no way affected the lids, expressed admirably his failure to see the connection of his companion's remark.
“Which means,” Christian went on to explain, “that my place is not upon either side of the question, but in the middle. I belong to no party, and I am the enemy of no man. I do not lead men's opinions. It is my duty to state facts as plainly and as coldly as possible in order that my countrymen may form their own judgment. It may appear that at one time I write upon one side of the question; the next week I may seem to write upon the other. That is one of the misfortunes of my calling.”
“Then we are not necessarily enemies,” said the Jesuit softly.