“Enjoy your Utopia!” said he bitterly.  “Do you fancy they acted up to their ideals?  They dreamed of the Quest of the Sangreal:  but which of them ever went upon it?”

“And does it count for nothing that they felt it the finest thing in the world to have gone on it, had it been possible?  Be sure if their ideal was so self-sacrificing, so lofty, their practice was ruled by something higher than the almighty dollar.”

“And so are some other men’s, Marie,” answered he reproachfully.

“Yes, forsooth;—­when the almighty dollar is there already, and a man has ten times as much to spend every day as he can possibly invest in French cookery, and wines, and fine clothes, then he begins to lay out his surplus nobly on self-education, and the patronage of art, and the theatre—­for merely aesthetic purposes, of course; and when the lust of the flesh has been satisfied, thinks himself an archangel, because he goes on to satisfy the lust of the eye and the pride of life.  Christ was of old the model, and Sir Galahad was the hero.  Now the one is exchanged for Goethe, and the other for Wilhelm Meister.”

“Cruel!  You know that my Goethe fever is long past.  How would you have known of its existence if I had not confessed it to you as a sin of old years?  Have I not said to you, again and again, show me the thing which you would have me do for your sake, and see if I will not do it!”

“For my sake?  A noble reason!  Show yourself the thing which you will do for its own sake; because it ought to be done.  Show it yourself, I say; I cannot show you.  If your own eyes cannot see the Sangreal, and the angels who are bearing it before you, it is because they are dull and gross; and am I Milton’s archangel, to purge them with euphrasy and rue?  If you have a noble heart, you will find for yourself the noblest Quest.  If not, who can prove to you that it is noble?” And tapping impatiently with her foot, she went on to herself—­

  “’A gentle sound, an awful light! 
    Three angels bear the holy Grail;
  With folded feet, in stoles of white,
    On sleeping wings they sail.

  Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 
    The spirit beats her mortal bars,
  As down dark tides, the glory slides,
    And star-like mingles with the stars.’

“Why, there was not a knight of the round table, was there, who did not give up all to go upon that Quest, though only one was found worthy to fulfil it?  But now-a-days, the knights sit drinking hock and champagne, or drive sulky-wagons, and never fancy that there is a Quest at all.”

“Why talk in these parables?”

“So the Jews asked of their prophets.  They are no parables to my ghost-husband, Sir Galahad.  Now go, if you please; I must be busy, and write letters.”

He rose with a look, half of disappointment, half amused, and yet his face bore a firmness which seemed to say, “You will be mine yet.”  As he rose, he cast his eye upon the writing-table, and upon a letter which lay there:  and as he did so, his cheek grew pale, and his brows knitted.