“Not at all,” returned John. “A Castle on an eminence is a very different pair of shoes from a Castle in a village, especially when it is incumbent upon one to seek that said Castle in order to fulfil one’s devotional obligations.”
“If,” said Corin reflectively, “I were a Catholic—don’t get excited, there’s no smallest prospect of your ever claiming me as a convert—but if I were a Catholic, I should not be so disgustingly slack about my religion as to object to walking up a small hill in order to attend my religious services.”
“I never said I objected to walking up a small hill,” remarked John. “I was merely pointing out the inaccuracy of your former statement.”
Corin sighed patiently. “You make me tired with your quibbling. And that last remark distinctly wanders from the truth.”
John smiled, not deigning further reply. It began as a small pitying smile for Corin’s weakness of retort, it continued with a hint of pleasure, a tiny secret excitement as at the possibility of the fulfilment of some concealed desire. His heart had beaten at least three degrees quicker at the mention of Delancey Castle, and it had not yet resumed its normal gentle throbbing.
He waited silent. There was now but one thought uppermost in his mind. Yet he could not voice it. The renewed suggestion—it surely would be renewed—must come from Corin. For John to give spontaneous hint of yielding in the matter of recent discussion would be to run the risk—though possibly merely a faint risk—of giving himself away. Faint or blatant, the risk was to be avoided at all cost. He smoked on, therefore, imperturbable, his eyes for the most part on a desk in a corner of the studio, an extremely untidy desk, covered with papers that looked for all the world as if they had been tossed thereon by a whirlwind, and then stirred by an exceedingly vigorous arm wielding a pitchfork. Yet, for all that his eyes were upon the desk, his thoughts were upon Corin.
“Speak, man, speak,” he was urging him by that mental process which is termed “willing.” “Renew your persuasions; beg me again to accompany you on your lonely sojourn.”
But either Corin was no medium, or John was no medium,—I have never been fully able to fathom whether the willer, or the willed, or both must be possessed of the mediumistic faculties for satisfactory results to accrue,—certain it is that Corin sat placidly silent, apparently entirely oblivious of John’s mental efforts in his direction.
Willing can be an exhausting process, at all events to one who is not an adept in the art. In John’s case, as the vigour of his efforts increased, his muscles grew tighter and tighter, till his very toes curled with spasmodic tension inside his shiny, polished, patent-leather boots, while a portentous frown drew his eyebrows firmly together till they practically met above his thin hooked nose.
Corin, glancing suddenly in his direction, surprised an almost anguished expression of countenance.