The
rain increased. The drops pattered hard on the leaves, and outside the corridor
men and women were struggling, however stupidly, with the facts of life. Inside
it they wrangled. She teased the boy, and laughed at his theories, and proved
that no man can be an agnostic who has a sense of humour. Suddenly she stopped,
not through any skill of his, but because she had remembered some words of
Bacon: “The true atheist is he whose hands are cauterized by holy things.” She
thought of her distant youth. The world was not so humorous then, but it had
been more important. For a moment she respected her companion, and determined
to vex him no more. They left the shelter of the laurels, crossed the broad
drive, and were inside the house at last. She had got quite wet, for the
weather would not let her play the simple life with impunity. As for him, he
seemed a piece of the wet. “Look here,” she cried, as he hurried up to his
attic, “don’t shave!” He was delighted with the permission. “I have an idea
that Miss Pembroke is of the type that pretends to be unconventional and really
isn’t. I want to see how she takes it. Don’t shave.”
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