"Oh! the world's very well, little girl," he replied. "One doesn't expect justice from it. One should be content if the world merely allows him to live."
"Yet you are always fighting for justice. You know you are, father."
"Ah! justice for other people—that's a different thing. But the condition of such a fight as that is to be indifferent to the question of justice to one's self. That is a very small matter indeed."
"That is how he always talks," she answered, with a charming friendliness of appeal to Arthur. "He never thinks about himself."
"There, there! we're getting very serious, little girl," Vickars replied. "Suppose we change the subject. We don't often have a guest. Don't you think a little supper and some music afterwards might fit the occasion?"
"How forgetful of me!" she said. She rose and left the room.
"You mustn't take my fine sentiments too seriously, so I give you due warning," he remarked. "Men who write books get into the way of talking their own books. You'll find, as you come to know me better, that there's a good deal of—of the artificial in me. The only merit I have above other men is that I am conscious of it."
"I have read your last book," said Arthur, "and I found nothing artificial in it. I thought it a great book."
"Have you? Well, I'm glad." His pale face was illumined for an instant by the boy's ingenuous praise. "No, Arthur," he added, "it's not great. It is merely true. And I think I can say this with real sincerity—I care much more for its truth than for its greatness."
"Are they not the same?" said Arthur.