“Well, whatever Faust would or would not do,” he said, half laughingly—­“it’s certain that food is never at a discount.  Women frequently are.”

“Women,” said Mr. Harland, poising a stem of asparagus in the air, “are so constituted as to invariably make havoc either of themselves or of the men they profess to love.  Wives neglect their husbands, and husbands naturally desert their wives.  Devoted lovers quarrel and part over the merest trifles.  The whole thing is a mistake.”

“What whole thing?” asked Santoris, smiling.

“The relations between man and woman,” Harland answered.  “In my opinion we should conduct ourselves like the birds and animals, whose relationships are neither binding nor lasting, but are just sufficient to preserve the type.  That’s all that is really needed.  What is called love is mere sentiment.”

“Do you endorse that verdict, Miss Harland?” Santoris asked, suddenly.

Catherine looked up, startled—­her yellow skin flushed a pale red.

“I don’t know,” she answered—­“I scarcely heard—­“”

“Your father doesn’t believe in love,” he said—­“Do you?”

“I hope it exists,” she murmured—­“But nowadays people are so very practical—­”

“Oh, believe me, they are no more practical now than they ever were!” averred Santoris, laughing.  “There’s as much romance in the modern world as in the ancient;—­the human heart has the same passions, but they are more deeply suppressed and therefore more dangerous.  And love holds the same eternal sway—­so does jealousy.”

Dr. Brayle looked up.

“Jealousy is an uncivilised thing,” he said—­“It is a kind of primitive passion from which no well-ordered mind should suffer.”

Santoris smiled.

“Primitive passions are as forceful as they ever were,” he answered.  “No culture can do away with them.  Jealousy, like love, is one of the motive powers of progress.  It is a great evil—­but a necessary one—­as necessary as war.  Without strife of some sort the world would become like a stagnant pool breeding nothing but weeds and the slimy creatures pertaining to foulness.  Even in love, the most divine of passions, there should be a wave of uncertainty and a sense of unsolved mystery to give it everlastingness.”

“Everlastingness?” queried Mr. Harland—­“Or simply life lastingness?”

“Everlastingness!” repeated Santoris.  “Love that lacks eternal stability is not love at all, but simply an affectionate understanding and agreeable companionship in this world only.  For the other world or worlds—­”

“Ah!  You are going too far,” interrupted Mr. Harland—­“You know I cannot follow you!  And with all due deference to the fair sex I very much doubt if any one of them would care for a love that was destined to last for ever.”

“No man would,” interrupted Brayle, sarcastically.

Santoris gave him a quick glance.