But this desire was not to be gratified.  Rufus met the thrust without the faintest hint of feeling.

“What you think,” he said, in his weighty fashion, “has nothing to do with me.  What you do is all that matters.  And I tell you straight”—­a blue flame suddenly leapt up like a volcanic light in the sombre eyes—­“that no man that hasn’t honest intentions by her is going to make love to Columbine.”

“Great Jove!” mocked Knight, with his careless laugh.  “And who told you, most worthy swain, what my intentions were?”

Rufus leaned towards him slowly, with something of the action of a crouching beast.  “No one told me,” he said in a voice that was deeply menacing.  “But—­I know.”

Knight made a gesture of supreme indifference.  “You are on an entirely wrong scent,” he observed.  “But you seem to be enjoying it.”  He paused to take out a cigarette.  “Have a smoke!” he suggested after a moment, proffering his case.

Rufus did not so much as see it.  His whole attitude was one of strain, as if he barely held himself back from springing at the other’s throat.

Knight, however, was elaborately unconscious of any tension.  He smiled and closed his cigarette case.  Then with the utmost deliberation he searched for his matches, found them, and lighted his cigarette.

Having puffed forth the first deep breath with luxurious enjoyment, he spoke again.  “It is a little difficult to get a man of your stamp to comprehend the fact that an artist—­a true artist—­is not one to be greatly drawn by the grosser things of life, more especially when he is in ardent pursuit of that elusive flame called inspiration.  But you would hardly grasp a condition in which the body—­and the impulses of the body—­are in complete subjection to the aspirations of the mind.  You”—­he blew forth a cloud of smoke—­“are probably incapable of realizing that the worship of beauty can be of so purely artistic a nature as to be practically free from the physical element, certainly independent of it.  I am taking you out of your depth, I know, but it is hard to make myself clear to an untrained mind.  I might try a homely simile and suggest to you that you go a-fishing, not for love of the fish, but because it is your profession; but that does not wholly illustrate my meaning, for I love everything in the way of beauty that comes my way.  I follow beauty like a guiding star.  And sometimes—­but seldom, oh, very seldom”—­a sudden odd thrill sounded in his voice as if by accident some hidden string had been struck and set vibrating—­“I fulfil my desire—­I realise my dream—­I grasp and hold a spark of the Divine.”  He paused again, his face to the gold of the dawn and in his eyes the far-off rapture of one who watches some soaring flight of fancy.  Then abruptly, lightly, he resumed his normal, half-quizzing demeanour.  “Doubtless I weary you,” he said.  “But you mustn’t run away with the idea that I am in love because I feel myself inspired.  It may sound callous to you, but if Miss Columbine were to lose her exquisite beauty (which heaven forbid!) I should never voluntarily look upon her again.  That I take it, is the test of love, which, we are told, is blind to all defects.”