"You admit that there is something of the beast in every man?"
"Naturally."
"Then why fear to see it?" The boy's face was pale, his eyes still challenged.
The other made a gesture of impatience. "It isn't a question of fear; it is a question of—well, of taste."
"Taste!" The boy tossed the word to scorn.
"What would you substitute?"
"Truth." There was a tremor in his voice, a veil seemed to fall upon his youth, arresting its carelessness, sobering its vitality.
The Irishman raised his brows. "Truth, eh?"
"Yes. It is only possible to live when we know life truly, see it and value it truly."
"There may be perverted truth."