"Not even you, sir?"
"Certainly not me, of all people—but I hope I should never ask you to make impossible promises."
"Then I may go on loving Lord Byron?"
"It seems to me that you ought to love him more if you think that he was sinful and unfortunate, and unhappy. It's a poor sort of love that only cares for the good, the fortunate, the successful."
"Christ was fond of unfortunate people," Jane-Anne said softly. Not altogether in vain had she read her New Testament.
"Ah," said Mr. Wycherly, "that is a phase of His character certain of His followers are apt to forget."
"I shall tell Miss Stukely that," Jane-Anne remarked perkily.
"You most certainly will do nothing of the kind. You must not preach at people—it's—it's so ill-bred."
Poor Jane-Anne looked very puzzled.
"It's a very funny thing," she said thoughtfully. "Nothing could be differenter than aunt and a real gentleman like you, and yet, sometimes, you both say the same sort of thing. Only, you call it ill-bred, and she'd call it the heighth of impidence."