’Oh, but I am; and we shall be friends none the worse for ingenuousness on both sides.  Look at the position in which you stand.  One moment you arc a woman of the world, the next you run frantic with religious zeal, another turn and you are almost an artist, at your piano; when you are tired of all these you become, or try to become, a sort of ingenue.  In the name of consistency, be one thing or another.  You are quite mistaken in thinking that I despise religious enthusiasm in itself.  Become a veritable Beatrice, and I will venerate you infinitely.  Give up everything to work in London slums, and you shall have my warmest admiration.  But you are not sincere.’

‘I am sincere!’ she broke in, with more passion than he had ever imagined her capable of uttering.

’I cannot call it sincerity.  It is impossible that you should be sincere; you live in the latter end of the nineteenth century; the conditions of your birth and education forbid sincerity of this kind.’

‘I am sincere,’ she repeated, but in a low voice, without looking at him.

‘On the other hand,’ lie proceeded, ’surrender yourself entirely to the life of society, and I will still respect you.  You are a beautiful woman; you might be inexpressibly charming.  Frankly recognise your capabilities, and cultivate your charm.  Make a study of your loveliness; make it your end to be a queen in drawing-rooms.’

‘You insult me.’

’I can’t see that I do.  There is nothing contemptible in such an aim; nothing is contemptible that is thorough.  Or you have the third course.  Pursue music with seriousness.  Become a real artist; a public singer, let us say.  No amateur nonsense; recognise that you have a superb voice, and that by dint of labour you may attain artistic excellence.  You talk of getting up concerts in low parts of London, of humanising ruffians by the influence of music.  Pshaw! humanise humanity at large by devotion to an artistic ideal; the other aim is paltry, imbecile, charlatan.’

He tried to see her face; she rode on, holding it averted.

’Follow any one of these courses, and you will make of yourself a true woman.  By trying to be a bit of everything you become insignificant.  Napoleon the Great was a curse to mankind, but one thinks more of him than of Napoleon the Little, who wasn’t quite sure whether to be a curse or a blessing.  There is a self in every one of us; the end of our life is to discern it, bring it out, make it actual.  You don’t yet know your own self; you have not the courage to look into your heart and mind; you keep over your eyes the bandage of dogmas in which you only half believe.  Your insincerity blights the natural qualities of your intellect.  You have so long tried to persuade yourself of the evil of every way of thinking save ecclesiastical dogmatism, that you cannot judge fairly even those to whom you are most friendly.  Cannot you see that the world has outgrown the possibility of one universal religion?  For good or for evil, each of us must find a religion in himself, and you have no right whatever to condemn before you have understood.’