“Go on, Julian,” Valentine said.  “I want to hear this.”

“All right, I’ll finish now, but I don’t know why I ever began.  Perhaps you’ll think me a fool, or a sentimentalist.”

“Nonsense!”

“Well, I don’t know how it is, but when I saw you I first understood that there is a good deal in what the parsons say, that sin is beastly in itself, don’t you know, even apart from one’s religious convictions, or the injury one may do to others.  When I saw you, I understood that sin degrades one’s self, Valentine.  For you had never sinned as I had, and you were so different from me.  You are the only sinless man I know, and you have made me know what beasts we men are.  Why can’t we be what we might be?”

Valentine did not reply.  He seemed lost in thought, and Julian continued, throwing off his original shamefacedness: 

“Ever since then you’ve kept me straight.  If I feel inclined to throw myself down in the gutter, one look at you makes me loathe the notion.  Preaching often drives one wrong out of sheer ‘cussedness,’ I suppose.  But you don’t preach and don’t care.  You just live beautifully, because you’re made differently from all of us.  So you do for me what no preachers could ever do.  There—­now you know.”

He lay back, puffing violently at his cigarette.

“It is strange,” Valentine said, seeing he had finished.  “You know, to live as I do is no effort to me, and so it is absurd to praise me.”

“I won’t praise you, but it’s outrageous of you to want to feel as I and other men feel.”

“Is it?  I don’t think so.  I think it is very natural.  My life is a dead calm, and a dead calm is monotonous.”

“It’s better than an everlasting storm.”

“I wonder!” Valentine said.  “How curious that I should protect you.  I am glad it is so.  And yet, Julian, in spite of what you say, I would give a great deal to change souls with you, if only for a day or two.  You will laugh at me, but I do long to feel a real, keen temptation.  Those agonizing struggles of holy men that one reads of, what can they be like?  I can hardly imagine.  There have been ascetics who have wept, and dashed themselves down on the ground, and injured, wounded their bodies to distract their thoughts from vice.  To me they seem as madmen.  You know the story of the monk who rescued a great courtesan from her life of shame.  He placed her in a convent and went into the desert.  But her image haunted him, maddened him.  He slunk back to the convent, and found her dying in the arms of God.  And he tried to drag her away, that she might sin only once again with him, with him, her saviour.  But she died, giving herself to God, and he went out cursing and blaspheming.  This is only a dramatic fable to me.  And yet I suppose it is a possibility.”

“Of course.  Val, I could imagine myself doing as that monk did, but for you.  Only that I could never have been a monk at all.”