“And Ignorance—­beautiful, divine Ignorance—­is forsaken by a generation that clamours for the truth.  And what value, pray, has this Truth that we should lust after it?”

He glanced up, in an inquiring fashion.  Mr. Jukesbury, meeting his eye, smiled and shook his head and said “Fie, fie!” very placidly.

To do him justice, he had not the least idea what Kennaston was talking about.

“I am aware,” the poet continued, with an air of generosity, “that many pleasant things have been said of it.  In fact, our decade has turned its back relentlessly upon the decayed, and we no longer read the lament over the lost art of lying issued many magazines ago by a once prominent British author.  Still, without advancing any Wilde theories, one may fairly claim that truth is a jewel—­a jewel with many facets, differing in appearance from each point of view.

“And while ‘Tell the truth and shame the Devil’ is a very pretty sentiment, it need not necessarily mean anything.  The Devil, if there be a personal devil—­and it has been pointed out, with some show of reason, that an impersonal one could scarcely carry out such enormous contracts—­would, in all probability, rather approve than otherwise of indiscriminate truth-telling.  Irritation is the root of all evil; and there is nothing more irritating than to hear the truth about one’s self.  It is bad enough, in all conscience, to be insulted, but the truth of an insult is the barb that prevents its retraction.  ’Truth hurts’ has all the pathos of understatement.  It not only hurts, but infuriates.  It has no more right to go naked in public than any one else.  Indeed, it has less right; for truth-telling is natural to mankind—­as is shown by its prevalence among the younger sort, such as children and cynics—­and, as Shakespeare long ago forgot to tell us, a touch of nature makes the whole world embarrassed.”

At this point Mrs. Haggage sniffed.  She considered he was growing improper.  She distrusted Nature.

“Truth-telling, then, may safely be regarded as an unamiable indiscretion.  In art, the bare truth must, in common gallantry, be awarded a print petticoat or one of canvas, as the case may be, to hide her nakedness; and in life, it is a disastrous virtue that we have united to commend and avoid.  Nor is the decision an unwise one; for man is a gregarious animal, knowing that friendship is, at best, but a feeble passion and therefore to be treated with the care due an invalid.  It is impossible to be quite candid in conversation with a man; and with a woman it is absolutely necessary that your speech should be candied.

“Truth, then, is the least desirable of acquaintances.

“But even if one wished to know the truth, the desire could scarcely be fulfilled.  Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, a prominent lawyer of Elizabeth’s time, who would have written Shakespeare’s plays had his other occupations not prevented it, quotes Pilate as inquiring, ’What is Truth?’—­and then not staying for an answer.  Pilate deserves all the praise he has never received.  Nothing is quite true.  Even Truth lies at the bottom of a well and not infrequently in other places.  No assertion is one whit truer than its opposite.”