“Whichever you like,” he replied, a little twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh, serious,” interpolated Miss Tibbutt.
Trix leant a little forward, resting her chin on her hands.
“Well, seriously then, conventions—those that are merely conventions for their own sake,—are detestable, and responsible for an enormous lot of unhappiness. ‘My dear (mimicked Trix), you can be quite polite to so and so, but I cannot have you becoming friendly with them, you know they are not quite.’ I’ve heard that said over and over again. It’s hateful. I’m not a socialist, not one little bit, but I do think if you like a person you ought to be able to be friends, even if you happen to be a Duchess and he’s a chimney-sweep. The motto of the present-day world is, ‘What will people think?’ People!” snorted Trix wrathfully, warming to her theme, “what people? And is their opinion worth twopence halfpenny? Fancy them associating with St. Peter if he appeared now among them as he used to be, with only his goodness and his character and his fisherman’s clothes, instead of his halo and his keys, as they see him in the churches.”
The two men laughed. Miss Tibbutt made a little murmur of something like query. The Duchessa’s face looked rather white, but perhaps it was only the effect of the moonlight.
“But, Miss Devereux,” said Doctor Hilary, “even now the world—people, as you call them, are quite ready to recognize genius despite the fact that it may have risen from the slums.”
“Yes,” contended Trix eagerly, “but it’s not the person they recognize really, it’s merely their adjunct.”
“What do you mean?” asked Miss Tibbutt. Father Dormer smiled comprehendingly.
“I mean,” said Trix slowly, “they recognize the thing that makes the show, and the person because of that thing, not for the person’s own self. Let me try and explain better. A man, born in the slums, has a marvellous voice. He becomes a noted singer. He’s received everywhere and fêted. But it’s really his voice that is fêted, because it is the fashion to fête it. Let him lose his voice, and he drops out of existence. People don’t recognize him himself, the self which gave expression to the voice, and which still is, even after the voice is dumb.”
Father Dormer nodded.