“And what is the real philosophy of living?”

“Just now, with him, it is the laissez faire, the non-interference with the essential forces of life, especially the forces that concern other people,” she explained.

He looked at her, a little startled.  What instinct, he wondered, had led her to place her finger upon the one poison spot in his thoughts?

“I can see,” he remarked, “that I have found my way into a dangerous neighbourhood.”

She changed her position a little, so as to face him.  Her blue eyes were lit with laughter, her lips mocked him.  Usually reserved, she seemed at that moment to be inspired with an instinct which was something almost more than coquetry.  She leaned a little towards him.  The aloofness of her carriage and manner had suddenly disappeared.  He was conscious of the perfection of her white muslin gown, of the shape of her neck, the delicate lines and grace of her slim young body.

“You shall be chained here,” she repeated.  “My uncle has a new theory of individualism.  He thinks that if no one tried to improve anybody, the world would be so much more livable a place.  Shall we sit at his feet?”

He shook his head.

“I am not brave,” he said, “but I am at least discreet.”

“Do you think that you are?” she asked him quietly.  “Do you think that you are discreet in the sense of being wise?  Are you sure that you are using your gifts for the best purpose, for yourself—­and other people?”

“No one can be sure,” he replied.  “I only follow my star.”

“Then are you sure that it is your star?”

“No one can ever mistake that,” he declared.  “Sometimes one may lose one’s way, and one may even falter if the path is rugged.  But the star remains.”

She sighed.  Her eyes seemed to have wandered away.  He felt that it was a trick to avoid looking at him for the moment.

“I do not want you to go to Manchester on Monday in your present mood,” she said.  “I hate to think of you up there, the stormy petrel, the apostle of unrest and sedition.  If I were a Roman woman, I think that I would poison you to-night at dinner-time.”

“Quite an idea,” he remarked.  “I am not at all sure that our having become too civilised for crime is a healthy sign of the times.”

“I do wish,” she persisted, “that you would try and see things a little more humanly.  My uncle is full of enthusiasms about you.  You have had some conversation already, haven’t you?”

“We talked for an hour after luncheon,” Maraton admitted.  “Your uncle’s is a very sane point of view.  I know just how he regards me—­a sort of dangerous enthusiast, a firebrand with the knack of commanding attention.  The worst of it is that when I am with him, he almost makes me feel like that myself.”

She laughed.

“All men of genius,” she declared, “must be impressionable.  We ought to set ourselves to discover your weak point.”