"Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a gentleman."
"I admit it willingly," said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the room. "A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself."
Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness.
"What did he suspect you of?"
"Of wanting to make money out of him."
"Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?"
"Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of thought or of goodwill would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does make men intolerable brutes."
"I come back to my original point. You ought to be more careful, Miss Schlegel. Your servants ought to have orders not to let such people in."
She turned to him frankly. "Let me explain exactly why we like this man, and want to see him again."
"That's your clever way of thinking. I shall never believe you like him."
"I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure, just as you do. Yes, you go motoring and shooting; he would like to go camping out. Secondly, he cares for something special in adventure. It is quickest to call that special something poetry—"
"Oh, he's one of that writer sort."
"No—oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be loathsome stiff. His brain is filled with the husks of books, culture—horrible; we want him to wash out his brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the country, some"—she hesitated—"either some very dear person or some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life's daily grey, and to show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both."
Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them run past. Others he caught and criticized with admirable lucidity.
