But Halidome remained unruffled.
“All right,” he said, “call it that. I don't see why I should go to the wall; it wouldn't do any good.”
“You admit, then,” said Shelton, “that our morality is the sum total of everybody's private instinct of self-preservation?”
Halidome stretched his splendid frame and yawned.
“I don't know,” he began, “that I should quite call it that—”
But the compelling complacency of his fine eyes, the dignified posture of his healthy body, the lofty slope of his narrow forehead, the perfectly humane look of his cultivated brutality, struck Shelton as ridiculous.
“Hang it, Hall” he cried, jumping from his chair, “what an old fraud you are! I'll be off.”
“No, look here!” said Halidome; the faintest shade of doubt had appeared upon his face; he took Shelton by a lapel: “You're quite wrong—”
“Very likely; good-night, old chap!”
Shelton walked home, letting the spring wind into him. It was Saturday, and he passed many silent couples. In every little patch of shadow he could see two forms standing or sitting close together, and in their presence Words the Impostors seemed to hold their tongues. The wind rustled the buds; the stars, one moment bright as diamonds, vanished the next. In the lower streets a large part of the world was under the influence of drink, but by this Shelton was far from being troubled. It seemed better than Drama, than dressing-bagged men, unruffled women, and padded points of view, better than the immaculate solidity of his friend's possessions.