As he spoke his eyes followed the line and balance of Mike’s neck and shoulders, which showed at this moment upon a dark shadow falling obliquely along an old wall.  Soft, violet eyes in which tenderness dwelt, and the strangely tall and lithe figure was emphasized by the conventional pose—­that pose of arm and thigh which the Greeks never wearied of.  Seeing him, the mind turned from the reserve of the Christian world towards the frank enjoyment of the Pagan; and John’s solid, rhythmless form was as symbolic of dogma as Mike’s of the grace of Athens.

As he ascended the stairs, having bidden his friends good-night, John thought of the unfortunate nun whom that man had persuaded to leave her convent, and he wondered if he were justified in living in such close communion of thought with those whose lives were set in all opposition to the principles on which he had staked his life’s value.  He was thinking and writing the same thoughts as Fletcher.  They were swimming in the same waters; they were living the same life.

Disturbed in mind he walked across the room, his spectacles glimmering on his high nose, his dressing-gown floating.  The manuscript of the poems caught his eyes, and he turned over the sheets, his hand trembling violently.  And if they were antagonistic to the spirit of his teaching, if not to the doctrine that the Church in her eternal wisdom deemed healthful and wise, and conducive to the best attainable morality and heaven?  What a fearful responsibility he was taking upon himself!  He had learned in bitter experience that he must seek salvation rather in elimination than in acceptance of responsibilities.  But his poems were all he deemed best in the world.  For a moment John stood face to face with, and he looked into the eyes of, the Church.  The dome of St. Peter’s, a solitary pope, cardinals, bishops, and priests.  Oh! wonderful symbolization of man’s lust of eternal life!

Must he renounce all his beliefs?  The wish so dear to him that the unspeakable spectacle of life might cease for ever; must he give thanks for existence because it gave him a small chance of gaining heaven?  Then it were well to bring others into the world....  True it is that the Church does not advance into such sloughs of optimism, but how different is her teaching from that of the early fathers, and how different is such dull optimism from the severe spirit of early Christianity.

Whither lay his duty?  Must he burn the poems?  Far better that they should burn and he should save his soul from burning.  A sudden vision of hell, a realistic mediaeval hell full of black devils and ovens came upon him, and he saw himself thrust into flame.  It seemed to him certain that his soul was lost—­so certain, that the source of prayer died within him and he fell prostrate.  He cursed, with curses that seared his soul as he uttered them, Harding, that cynical atheist, who had striven to undermine his faith, and he shrank from thought of Fletcher, that dirty voluptuary.