“It is the secret of youth, the secret of life, the secret of joy,” Selingman declared.  “Detachment is the word.  Life would make slaves of all of us, if one did not sometimes square one’s shoulders and say—­’No, thank you, I have had enough!  Good-bye!  I return presently.’  One needs a will, perhaps, but then, what is life without will?  I myself was at work.  The greatest theatrical manager in the world kept sentry before my door.  The greatest genius who ever trod upon the stage sent me frantic messages every few hours.  Then they spoke to me of Maraton.  I heard the cry—­’Maraton is here!’ I heard the thunder from across the seas.  Up from my desk, out from my room—­hysterics, entreaties, nothing stopped me.  No luggage worth mentioning.  Away I come, to London, to Sheffield—­what a place!  To-morrow—­to-morrow or the next day I return, full of life and vigour.  It is splendid.  I broke away.  No one else could have done it.  I left them in tears.  What did I care?  It is for myself—­for myself I do these things.  Unless I myself am at my best, what have I to give the world?  Miss Julia, your health!  To the roses, and may they never leave your cheeks!  No, don’t go yet.  There are strawberries coming.”

Maraton and his host sat together for a few moments in the garden before they started on their return journey.  Selingman leaned across the table.  He had forgotten to put on his coat, and he sat unabashed in his shirt sleeves.  He had drunk a good deal of wine, and the little beads of perspiration stood out upon his forehead.

“Maraton,” he said, “you need me.  You are like the others.  When the fire has touched their eyes and indeed they see the things that are, they fall on their knees and they tear away at the weeds and rubbish that cumber the earth, and they never lift their eyes, and soon their frame grows weary and their heart cold.  Be wise, man.  The mark is upon you.  Those live best and work best in this world who have a soul for its beauties.  Women, for instance,” he went on, smoking furiously.  “What help do you make of women?  None!  You sit at one end of the table, your secretary at the other.  You don’t look at her.  She might have pig’s eyes, for anything you know about it.  Idiot!  And she—­not quite as bad, perhaps.  Women feel a little, you know, that they don’t show.  Why not marry, Maraton?  No?  Perhaps you are right.  And yet women are wonderful.  You can’t do your greatest work, Maraton, you never will reach your greatest work, unless a woman’s hand is yours.”

They rode back to London in comparative silence.  Selingman frankly and openly slept, with his grey hat on the back of his head, his untidy feet upon the opposite cushions, his mouth wide open.  Maraton more than once found himself watching Julia covertly.  There was no doubt that in her strange, quiet way she was beautiful.  As he sat and looked at her, his thoughts travelled back to the little garden, the sheltered corner under the trees, the curious sense of relaxation which in that short hour Selingman had inspired.  Was the man indeed right, his philosophy sound?  Was there indeed wisdom in the loosening of the bonds?  He met her eyes suddenly, and she smiled at him.  With her—­well, he scarcely dared to tell himself that he knew how it was.  He closed his eyes again.  A thought had come to him sweeter than any yet.