I must tell somebody—and you would understand. ‘You’d do the same. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. “Yes, I have heard of him, and I know him by sight,” he admitted. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. “Listen! There was a Meysey Hill in Paris, an American railway millionaire. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. She stared.
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