“Oh! oh!” jeered Siward.
“A sentimentalist of the weakest type,” continued Plank obstinately; “because he sentimentalises over himself. Siward, look out for the man with elaborate whiskers! Look out for a pallid man with eccentric hair and a silky beard! He's a sentimentalist of the sort I told you, and is usually utterly remorseless in his dealings with women. I suppose you think me a fool.”
“I think Quarrier is indifferent concerning women,” said Siward.
“You are wrong. He is a sensualist,” insisted Plank.
“Oh, no, Plank—not that!”
“A sensualist. His sentimental vanity he lavishes upon himself—the animal in him on women. His caution, born of self-consideration, is the caution of a beast. Such men as he believe they live in the focus of a million eyes. Part of his vanity is to deceive those eyes and be what he is under the mask he wears; and to do that one must be the very master of caution. That is Quarrier's vanity. To conceal, is his monomania.”
“I cannot see how you draw that conclusion.”
“Siward, he is a bad man, and crafty—every inch of him.”
“Oh, come, now! Only characters in fiction have no saving qualities. You never heard of anybody in real life being entirely bad.”
“No, I didn't; and Quarrier isn't. For example, he is kind to valuable animals—I mean, his own.”