Dr. Levillier combined, to some appreciable extent, the different joys of his two companions, and obtained another that was quite his own.  He had seen two horses running in double harness that night, the body and mind of the hero, and had taken delight in observing what had practically escaped the definite notice of his companions, the ingenuity and subtlety with which the author, without being obtrusive or insistent, had displayed their liaison; the effect of each upon the other, their answering excursions and alarums, their attempts at separate amours, amours that always had an inevitable effect upon the one which the other had, for the moment, endeavoured to exclude from its life.  The doctor in him and the priest in him had both enjoyed a glorious evening of bracing activity.  As they discussed the piece, and each advanced his reason of pleasure, the doctor expanded into a sort of saintly geniality, which was peculiarly attractive even to sinners.  And when supper was over, and they strolled into the drawing-room to smoke and to make music, he sank into a chair, stretched out his polished boots with a sigh, and said: 

“And people say there is so little joy in life!”

Julian laughed at the satisfied whimsicality of his exclamation and of the expression which shadowed it.

“Light up, doctor,” he cried.  “You are a boon to this modern world.  For you see all the sorrows of life, I suppose, and yet you always manage to convey the impression that the joys win the battle after all.”

Valentine had gone over to the piano and was dreamily opening it.  He did not seem to hear what they were saying.  The doctor obeyed the injunction to light up.  He was one of the hardest and most assiduous toilers in all London, and he appreciated a good cigar and a comfortable arm-chair more than some men could appreciate Paradise, or some women appreciate love.

“And I believe that joy will win the battle in the end,” he said, with a puff that proved successful.

“Why?”

“I see evidences of it, or think I do.  The colour will fade out of bad acts, Addison, but the colour of a good act is eternal.  A noble deed will never emulate a Sir Joshua Reynolds—­never.  Play to us, Cresswell.”

“Yes, but I wish you to talk.  I want to improvise to-night.  The murmur of your conversation will help me.”

Julian sat down by the doctor.  He, too, looked very happy.  It was a pleasant hour.  Sympathy was in that pretty room, complete human sympathy, and a sympathy that sprang from their vitality, avoiding the dusky dumbness of the phlegmatic.  Valentine sat down at the piano and began gently to play.  The smoke from the cigars curled away towards the watching pictures; the room was full of soft music.