Father Murchison pursed up his rather full, cherubic lips, and little wrinkles appeared about the corners of his blue eyes.
"There might be, of course," he said, after a pause. "Human nature is weak, engagingly weak, Guildea. And you're inclined to flout it. I could understand a certain class of lady—the lion-hunting, the intellectual lady, seeking you. Your reputation, your great name——"
"Yes, yes," Guildea interrupted, rather irritably—"I know all that, I know."
He twisted his long hands together, bending the palms outwards till his thin, pointed fingers cracked. His forehead was wrinkled in a frown.
"I imagine," he said,—he stopped and coughed drily, almost shrilly—"I imagine it would be very disagreeable to be liked, to be run after—that is the usual expression, isn't it—by anything one objected to."
And now he half turned in his chair, crossed his legs one over the other, and looked at his guest with an unusual, almost piercing interrogation.
"Anything?" said the Father.
"Well—well, anyone. I imagine nothing could be more unpleasant."
"To you—no," answered the Father. "But—forgive me, Guildea, I cannot conceive you permitting such intrusion. You don't encourage adoration."
Guildea nodded his head gloomily.