Mayne felt uncomfortable. He had been out of the civilized world for some time, and was new to the fashion of emotional conversation in drawing-rooms and omnibuses.
“Oh—my little book!” he answered, carelessly. “I can’t write a bit, you know. It was awful stuff. At least, the way it was put together. The material was all right.”
“But indeed you do yourself injustice,” Philippa returned, in her peculiar low voice, as always, surcharged with feeling. “Mr. Kingslake was saying only the other night how wonderfully vivid is your style. So much color—so much——”
“You know Robert Kingslake?” interrupted Mayne, with interest.
“We met here the other night, at dinner,” she said, fixing her wonderful eyes upon his face in an abstracted way. “What a charming man! He has a beautiful soul, I’m sure. There is poetry in his work, idealism——”
“He’s made a lot of money over this last novel of his,” remarked Mayne, a little brutally.
“Yes. Doesn’t that show that the world is waiting for a message? The poor sad world that longs to be shown the beauty it is missing.”
“I hadn’t noticed it,” returned Mayne. “But then I haven’t seen much of the paying world lately.”
“One must have faith,” said Philippa, softly. “The faith that removes mountains.”
“And brings in the shekels,” laughed Mayne. “Kingslake’s has been justified, anyway. I’m going down there next week,” he added, for the sake of changing the rarefied atmosphere of the conversation. “To Sheepcote, you know, with the Kingslakes.”