I was silent.
“The world is as it is made,”—he went on, regarding me
fixedly—“It is moved by the lowest and pettiest motives,—it works for the most trivial, ridiculous and perishable aims. It is not a paradise. It is not a happy family of united and [p 171] affectionate brethren. It is an over-populated colony of jabbering and quarrelsome monkeys, who fancy they are men. Philosophers in old days tried to teach it that the monkey-type should be exterminated for the growth and encouragement of a nobler race,—but they preached in vain—there never were enough real men alive to overcome the swarming majority of the beasts. God Himself, they say, came down from Heaven to try and set wrong things right, and to restore if possible His own defaced image to the general aspect of humanity,—and even He failed.”
“There is very little of God in this world”—I said bitterly; “There is much more Devil!”
He smiled,—a musing, dreamy smile that transfigured his countenance and made him look like a fine Apollo absorbed in the thought of some new and glorious song.
“No doubt!” he said, after a little pause—“Mankind certainly prefer the devil to any other deity,—therefore if they elect him as their representative, it is scarcely to be wondered at that he governs where he is asked to govern. And yet—do you know Geoffrey—this devil,—if there is one,—can hardly, I think, be quite so bad as his detractors say. I myself don’t believe he is a whit worse than a nineteenth-century financier!”
I laughed aloud at the comparison.
“After that,” I said—“you had better go to McWhing. I hope you will tell him that I am the triple essence of all the newest ‘discoveries’ rolled into one!”
“Never fear!” returned Lucio,—“I’ve learned all my stock-phrases by heart—a ‘star of the first magnitude’ etc.,—I’ve read the Athenæum till I’ve got the lingo of the literary auctioneer well-nigh perfect, and I believe I shall acquit myself admirably. Au revoir!”
He was gone; and I, after a little desultory looking over my papers, went out to lunch at Arthur’s, of which club I was now a member. On my way I stopped to look in at a bookseller’s window to see if my ‘immortal’ production was yet on show. It was not,—and the volume put most conspicuously [p 172] to the front among all the ‘newest books’ was one entitled ‘Differences. By Mavis Clare.’ Acting on a sudden impulse I went in to purchase it.