"Je ne comprends pas!"—he said—"Ven ze pig squeak, c'est naturel— ce n'est pas divin! Ven ze man scratch ze flea, c'est naturel—ce n'est pas divin! Ze art ne desire pas ze picture of ze flea! Ze literature n'existe pas pour ze squeak of ze pig! Ah, bah! L'art,— c'est l'imagination—l'ideal—c'est le veritable Dieu en l'homme!"
Longford gave vent to a snigger, which was his way of laughing.
"God is an abstract illusion,"—he said—"One does not introduce a non-available quantity in the summing up of facts!"
"Ah! Vous ne croyez pas en Dieu?" And Gigue ruffled up his grey hair with one hand. "Mais—a quoi bon! Ca ne sert rien! Dieu pent exister sans votre croyance, Monsieur!—je vous jure!"
And he laughed—a hearty laugh that was infectious and carried the laughter of everyone else with it. Longford, irritated, turned to his next neighbour with some trite observation, and allowed the discussion to drop. But Walden had heard it, and his heart went out to Gigue for the manner in which he had, for the moment at least, quenched the light of the 'Savage and Savile.'
Up at the end of the table at which he, Walden, sat, things were of rather a strained character. Lord Roxmouth essayed to be witty and conversational, but received so little encouragement in his sallies from Maryllia, that he had to content himself with Lady Wicketts, whom he found a terrible bore. Sir Morton Pippitt, eating heartily of everything, was gradually becoming purple in the face and somnolent under the influence of wine and food,—Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, tired of trying to 'draw' Walden on sundry topics, got cross and impatient, the more so as she found that he could make himself very charming to the other people in his immediate vicinity, and that, as the dinner proceeded, he 'came out' as it were, very unexpectedly in conversation, and proved himself not only an intellectually brilliant man, but a socially entertaining one. Lord Roxmouth glanced at him curiously from time to time with growing suspicion and disfavour. He was not the kind of subservient, half hypocritical, mock-meek being that is conventionally supposed to represent a country 'cure.' His independent air, his ease of manner, and above all, his intelligence and high culture, were singularly displeasing to Lord Roxmouth, especially as he noticed that Maryllia listened to everything Walden said, and appeared to be more interested in his observations than in those of anyone else at the table. Exchanging a suggestive glance with Lady Beaulyon, Roxmouth saw that she was taking notes equally with himself on this circumstance, and his already hard face hardened, and grew colder and more inflexible as Walden, with a gaiety and humour irresistibly his own, kept the ball of conversation rolling, and gradually drew to his own strong and magnetic personality, the appreciative attention of nearly all present.
Truth to tell, a sudden exhilaration and excitement had wakened up John's latent forces,—Maryllia's eyes, glancing half timidly, half wistfully at him, and her fair face, slightly troubled in its expression, had moved him to an exertion of his best powers to please her, and make everything bright and gay around her. Instinct told him that some secret annoyance fretted her—and watching her looks, and noting the monosyllabic replies she gave to Lord Roxmouth whenever that distinguished personage addressed her, he decided, with a foolish thrill at his heart, that the report of her intended marriage with this nobleman could not be true—she could never look so coldly at anyone she loved! And with this idea paramount in his brain he gave himself up to the humour of the hour—and by and by heads were turned in his direction, and people whispered—'Is that the parson of the parish?'—and when the answer was given in the affirmative, wondering glances were exchanged, and someone at the other end of the table remarked sotto voce:—'Much too brilliant a man for the country!'—whereat Miss Arabella Ittlethwaite bridled up and said she 'hoped nobody thought that town offered the only samples of the human brain worth noticing,' as she would, in that case, 'beg to differ.' Whereat there ensued a lively discussion, which ended, so far as the general experience went, in the decision that clever men were always born or discovered in the country, but that after a while they invariably went up to town, and there became famous.
Presently, the dinner drawing to an end, dessert, coffee and the smoking conveniences for both ladies and gentlemen were handed round,—cigars for the gentlemen, cigarettes for both gentlemen and ladies. All the women helped themselves to cigarettes, as a matter of course, with the exception of Miss Ittlethwaite,—(who, as a 'county' lady of the old school, sat transfixed with horror at the bare idea of being expected to smoke)—poor old Miss Fosby, and Maryllia. And now occurred an incident, in itself trifling, but fraught with strange results to those immediately concerned. Lady Beaulyon was just about to light her own cigarette when, in obedience to a sudden thought that flashed across her brain, she turned her lovely laughing face round towards Walden, and said:
"As there's a clergyman present, I'm sure we ought to ask his permission before we light up! Don't you think it very shocking for women to smoke, Mr. Walden?"
He looked straight at her—his face paling a little with a sense of strongly suppressed feeling.