“Dirt. Dirt!” he mused. “Yes, I was in the dirt once, was born in it, the dirt of poverty and superstition and fears of laws here and hereafter. But I awoke at last, and shook it off, washed myself in knowledge and stood erect. I am a man now, with the eye of a king, conscious of my power. I look a lying hypocritical world in the face. I have made up my mind to live my own life in spite of fools, and in spite of the laws and conventions of fools.”
“And yet I believe you carry a horse-chestnut in your pocket, and will not undertake an important work on Friday?” she returned.
“But I never strangle a normal impulse of my nature that I can satisfy. I am not that big a fool, at least.”
She was silent, and then said, “I can never thank you enough for the book you sent me.”
McLeod sighed in relief at her change of tone. After all she was just tantalising him!
“Then you liked it?” he cried with glittering eyes.
“I devoured every word of it with a greed you can not understand. A great man wrote it.”
“Then we can understand each other better from today,” he interrupted smilingly.
“Yes, far better. You gave me this book hoping that it might influence my character by destroying my ideal of love, didn’t you, now frankly?”
“Honestly, I did hope it would emancipate you from superstitions.”