‘Does he? He’s tremendously interested; but then, he’s pretty easily interested when he’s interested at all. If he can possibly twist anything into the slightest show of a mystery, he will. But, of course, you won’t, you can’t, take all he says seriously. The tiniest pinch of salt, you know. He’s an absolute fanatic at talking in the air. Besides, it doesn’t really matter much.’
‘In the air?’
‘I mean if once a theory gets into his head—the more far-fetched, so long as it’s original, the better—it flowers out into a positive miracle of incredibilities. And of course you can rout out evidence for anything under the sun from his dingy old folios. Why did he lend you that particular book?’
‘Didn’t he tell you that, then?’
‘He said it was Sabathier.’ She seemed to think intensely for the merest fraction of a moment, and turned. ‘Honestly, though, I think he immensely exaggerated the likeness. As for...’
He touched her arm, and they stopped again, face to face. ‘Tell me what difference exactly you see,’ he said. ‘I am quite myself again now, honestly; please tell me just the very worst you think.’
‘I think, to begin with,’ she began, with exaggerated candour, ‘his is rather a detestable face.’
‘And mine?’ he said gravely.
‘Why—very troubled; oh yes—but his was like some bird of prey. Yours—what mad stuff to talk like this!—not the least symptom, that I can see, of—why, the “prey,” you know.’
They had come to the wicket in the dark thorny hedge. ‘Would it be very dreadful to walk on a little—just to finish?’