She was silent for a little while. Then she rose with a smile.
"Well, Mr. Good, I'm not a match for you in these matters, but Mr. Imrie is coming to supper to-night and you can have it out with him face to face."
"I'd be glad to," said Good as he scrambled to his feet, very awkwardly. "But it wouldn't be any use. That's another reason for my dislike of clergymen. You can't argue with them. The major premise, though it isn't expressed of course, when you start off, is that they are right and you are wrong. They are trying to convince you—always—never to learn. They can go back to supernatural inspiration and I can't—so the argument stops before it starts. You can't do much, you know, with a man who's absolutely convinced that he's got a pipe line direct to eternity. But I'll be polite to him. I'll try to forget that he's a parson and only remember that he's your friend."
Judith smiled furtively at this magnanimous offer. It was so characteristic of the man. If there was a drop of sycophantic blood in his veins, he had yet to reveal it. And it was this sublime confidence in himself which formed one of his most potent charms for her. From birth she had been waited upon, with varying degrees of servility, depending upon the station and the hopes of those who waited. There were servants. There were young men, of varying degrees of attractiveness, station, and impecuniousness, who wanted to marry her. There were beggars, of varying degrees of honesty, who wanted her to aid them. There were the proponents of various charitable schemes, with varying degrees of sincerity and intelligence, who wanted her to sign the cheques. And in addition to those who merely wanted money, were the great swarm of both sexes, who sought the smile of her social favour, who delighted to be seen with her, to have her accept their attentions, to be invited to her functions. There had been very few people in her life who were there with a wholly disinterested purpose. And even the individuals who were disinterested—or whom she thought disinterested—had relatives who were not. In spite of her temperament, the circumstances of her birth and wealth had forced her to surround herself with a well-defined armour of suspicion. In Good's lack of reverence, of tact, of taste, of manners, of anything approaching the conventions which made up her life, she found what she had craved. Of his utter clarity of soul there could be no doubt. She never once even suspected that he had a thought which he considered worth uttering, which, from motives of expediency, he did not utter. She had given him food and lodging. He had given her—all he had to give—his open heart. It was clear that he thought they were quits. And she was glad that he did. It was her first experience of such an exchange.
She smiled again as she recalled his promise not to enter into debate with Imrie. He would treat Imrie kindly—for her sake. How Arnold would fume if he knew of such forbearance. And if Good only knew what he was saying ... well, she reflected, he would doubtless say it just the same!
At supper, true to his promise, Good was extremely taciturn. He appeared respectfully interested in all that Imrie had to say, joked pleasantly with Roger, was politely intimate with Judith, and to her very great astonishment, even went so far as to tell several very entertaining anecdotes of his experiences in the diamond mines of South Africa.
"Why," she cried, "I never knew you had been there."
"No," he said, with a twinkle in his eye and a dry little twist to his lips, "I never told you."
But after that he relapsed into comparative silence, and shortly after the meal, excused himself rather deftly, though none the less certainly, and went to his room.
Roger, as usual, had an engagement elsewhere, and presently he, too, departed. Judith and Imrie were left alone.