If, after such discourse, the bibliographer still remained mulishly clean-minded, Keith would return to the psychological necessity of “appropriate reaction” and cite an endless list of sovereigns, popes, and other heroes who, in their moments of leisure, were wise enough to react against the persistent strain of purity.  Then, via Alexander of Macedon, “one of the greatest sons of earth,” as Bishop Thirlwall had called him—­Alexander, with whose deplorable capacity for “unbending” a scholar like Eames was perfectly familiar—­he would switch the conversation into realms of military science, and begin to expatiate upon the wonderful advance which has been made since those days in the arts of defensive and offensive warfare—­the decline of the phalanx, the rise of artillery, the changed system of fortifications, those modern inventions in the department of land defences, sea defences and, above all, aerial defences, parachutes, hydroplanes. . . .

Whereupon a curious change would creep over the bibliographer’s honest face.  He knew what this talk portended.  His features would assume an air of strained but polite attention, and he generally broke off the conversation and took his departure at the earliest moment consistent with ordinary civility.  On such occasions he was wont to think his friend Keith an offensive cad.  Sadly shaking his head, he would say to himself: 

“Nihil quod TETIGIT non INQUINAVIT.”

CHAPTER X

Mr. Keith was apt to be a bore, but he could do things properly when he wanted, as for example on the occasion of his annual bean-feast.  There were no two opinions about that.  The trees, arbours, and winding ways of his garden were festooned that evening with hundreds of Chinese lamps whose multi-coloured light mingled pleasantly with the purer radiance of the moon, shining directly overhead.  It was like fairyland, the Duchess was wont to declare, year after year.  And Don Francesco who, on this particular night, clung closely to her skirts in view of that impending conversion to the Roman Church, replied laughingly: 

“If fairyland is anything like this, I would not object to living there.  Provided always, dear lady, that you are to be found somewhere on the premises.  What do you say, Mr. Heard?”

“I will gladly join your party, if you will allow me,” replied the bishop.  “This aspic could not be better.  It seems to open up a new world of delights.  Dear me.  I fear I am becoming a gourmand, like Lucullus.  Though Lucullus, to be sure, was a temperate man.  No, thank you, Don Francesco; not a drop more!  My liver, you know.  I declare it’s making me feel quite dizzy.”

As Marten had foretold, the wine flowed in torrents.  There was a bewildering display of cool dishes, too, prepared under the personal supervision of the chef—­that celebrated artist whom Keith had inveigled out of the service of a life-loving old Ambassador by the threat of disclosing to the police some hideously disreputable action in the man’s past life which His Excellently had artlessly confided to him, under the seal of secrecy.