Peregrine smiled somewhat grimly. “I doubt that you find in me an over-apt pupil,” he returned. “Also, to what end may the teaching be? And how shall it lead me further on my quest, which I tell you very plainly I mean to pursue?”
Menippus pointed to the door.
“There,” he said, “is your way out. You can leave me on the instant an’ you will; pursue your quest your own way. You have proved whether it has so far been successful or no. If, on the other hand, you abide here with me, receive the instructions I will give you, I will lead you anon to the woman you seek. By yourself you will never find her; through me you will. You may see my words fairy-tale invention an’ you choose. You have free choice in the matter. Think well on it.” He turned calmly to his book, bending close over the pages. For aught of consideration he now gave Peregrine he might have been non-existent.
Peregrine lay still, gnawing his finger thoughtfully. Truly he did not particularly like the turn of matters. There was an unhealthy atmosphere about the close-draped apartment and the man’s words which he found distasteful. An’ the woman were indeed in existence he had rather trust to his own self to find her. Yet....
In this word he summed up the past year and more; saw himself weary, footsore, hungry, moreover sick at heart, and no nearer fulfilment of his quest, to all appearance, than at the outset. Here was definite promise of fulfilment. It was the unhealthiness of the man before him that displeased him. He saw the face of the woman clear-eyed, wonderful, as he had seen her on the first day of his vision, not as he had seen her as he lay in the snow. That he believed now to be but the distorted image of a fevered imagination. How should the woman he knew in his dreams have dealing with this old Sage? In one breath Peregrine found the notion unendurable; in the next, an’ the Sage spoke truth, he saw here the only means of meeting with her. Yet did he speak truth? There was the crux of the whole question. Perchance it were wisdom to stay a while, and put the matter to the test. An’ the promise were not proved, he could set out anew on his own account. In the meantime he must stay as pupil. This he found somewhat nauseating to his mind. His senses now more fully awake, he found the odour of the room strange, a curious mixture of burning herbs, incense, and with it the scent of accumulated dust. No breath of outside air reached his nostrils. The atmosphere was as unwholesome physically as his mental conception of it. Thus he vacillated between remaining and departing. Finally he made his choice. Truly it was made somewhat sulkily, and for lack of seeing a better one.
“I will remain,” he said.
Menippus raised his head, looked at him as one bewildered.
“You spoke?” he asked.
“I said I would remain,” returned Peregrine a trifle testily. When one has stated a difficult and reluctant decision, it is none too pleasant to be obliged to repeat the statement. It is in a manner lowering to one’s dignity.
“You do well,” returned Menippus calmly. “Yet I would have you bear in mind it is by your own free will that you remain.”