“There must be exceptions,” Sybil declared.

“There are none,” Lord Arranmore answered, lightly, “outside the madhouse.  For the realization of life comes only hand in hand with insanity.  The people who have come nearest to it carry the mark with them all their life.  For the fever of knowledge will scorch even those who peer over the sides of the cauldron.”

Lady Caroom helped herself to some more tea.

“Really, Arranmore,” she drawled, “for sheer and unadulterated pessimism you are unsurpassed.  You must be a very morbid person.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“One is always called morbid,” he remarked, “who dares to look towards the truth.”

“There are people,” Lady Caroom answered, “who look always towards the clouds, even when the sun is shining.”

“I am in the minority,” Lord Arranmore said, smiling.  “I feel myself becoming isolated.  Let us abandon the subject.”

“No, let us convert you instead,” Sybil declared.  “We want to look at the sun, and we want to take you with us.  You are really a very stupid person, you know.  Why do you want to stay all alone amongst the shadows?” Arranmore smiled faintly.

“The sun shines,” he said, “only for those who have eyes to see it.”

“Blindness is not incurable,” she answered.

“Save when the light in the eyes is dead,” he answered.  “Come, shall we play a game at fourhanded billiards?”

It resolved itself into a match between Lady Caroom and Lord Arranmore, who were both players far above the average.  Sybil and Brooks talked, but for once her attention wandered.  She seemed listening to the click of the billiard-balls, and watching the man and the woman between whom all conversation seemed dead.  Brooks noticed her absorption, and abandoned his own attempts to interest her.

“Your mother and Lord Arranmore,” he remarked, “are very old friends.”

“They have known one another all their lives,” she murmured.  “Lord Arranmore has changed a good deal though since his younger days.”

Brooks made no reply.  The girl suddenly bent her head towards him.

“Are you a judge of character?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Scarcely.  I have not had enough experience.  It is a fascinating study.”

“Very.  Now I want to ask you something.  What do you think of Lord Arranmore?”

Her tone betokened unusual seriousness.  His light answer died away on his lips.

“It is very hard for me to answer that question,” he said.  “Lord Arranmore has been most unnecessarily kind to me.”

“His character?”

“I do not pretend to be able to understand it.  I think that he is often wilfully misleading.  He does not wish to be understood.  He delights in paradoxy and moral gymnastics.”

“He may blind your judgment.  How do you personally feel towards him?”

“That,” he answered, “might be misleading.  He has shown me so much kindness.  Yet I think—­I am sure—­that I liked him from the first moment I saw him.”