“Now are you satisfied?” he asked.
Philip, somewhat bewildered, confessed that he was.
“I’m disappointed that you didn’t add a little Buddhism,” said Weeks. “And I confess I have a sort of sympathy for Mahomet; I regret that you should have left him out in the cold.”
Hayward laughed, for he was in a good humour with himself that evening, and the ring of his sentences still sounded pleasant in his ears. He emptied his glass.
“I didn’t expect you to understand me,” he answered. “With your cold American intelligence you can only adopt the critical attitude. Emerson and all that sort of thing. But what is criticism? Criticism is purely destructive; anyone can destroy, but not everyone can build up. You are a pedant, my dear fellow. The important thing is to construct: I am constructive; I am a poet.”
Weeks looked at him with eyes which seemed at the same time to be quite grave and yet to be smiling brightly.
“I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a little drunk.”
“Nothing to speak of,” answered Hayward cheerfully. “And not enough for me to be unable to overwhelm you in argument. But come, I have unbosomed my soul; now tell us what your religion is.”
Weeks put his head on one side so that he looked like a sparrow on a perch.
“I’ve been trying to find that out for years. I think I’m a Unitarian.”