They all looked at the Italian. His heavy “Roman-Emperor” face quivered through all its muscles.
“It’s not ritual,” he muttered gloomily, “you’d better not ask me what it is, for I know!”
Brand Renshaw smiled a cruel smile.
“He means that it’s madness,” he remarked carelessly, “and I dare say he’s quite right.”
“Fingal Raughty’s not mad,” protested Mr. Traherne, “I tell you he bathes himself just as my rat does—to praise God and purge his sins!”
“I wasn’t thinking about the Doctor,” said Brand quietly, the same cruel gleam in his eyes. “Mr. Sorio knows what I meant.”
The Italian made a movement as if he were about to leap upon him and strike him, but the reappearance of Fingal, his cheeks shining and his face softly irradiated, distracted the general attention.
“You’d begun to tell us, Stork,” said the Doctor, “what your escape is from the sting of sensuality. You wipe out, altogether, you say, God and Eternity?”
Baltazar’s feminine features hardened as if under a thin mask of enamel. Brand shot a malignant glance at him.