“Your moral comparison between Constantinople and Greece—it isn’t fair, by the way, to compare a city with a country—doesn’t interest me at all. People can be disgusting anywhere. Greece is no better than Turkey. It has a wonderfully delicate, pure atmosphere; but that doesn’t influence the morals of the population. Fine Greek art is the purest art in the world; but that doesn’t mean that the men who created it had only pure thoughts or lived only pure lives. I never read morals into art, although I’m English, and it’s the old hopeless English way to do that. The man who made Echo”—she turned her large eyes towards the statuette—“may have been an evil liver. In fact, I believe he was. But Echo is an exquisite pure bit of art.”
Dion thought of Rosamund’s words about Praxiteles as they sat before Hermes. His Rosamund and Mrs. Clarke were mentally at opposite poles; yet they were both good women.
“My friend Daventry would agree with you, I know,” he said.
“He’s a clever and a very dear little man. Who’s that coming in?”
Dion looked and saw Canon Wilton. He told Mrs. Clarke who it was.
“Enid told me he was coming. I should like to know him.”
“Shall I go and tell him so?”
“Presently. How’s your baby? I’m told you’ve got a baby.”
Dion actually blushed. Mrs. Clarke gazed at the blush, and no doubt thoroughly understood it, but she did not smile, or look arch, or full of feminine understanding.
“It’s very well, thank you. It’s just like other babies.”