Maryllia laughed.

“Are you not a man yourself?” she said.

“Not altogether!” he admitted,—­“I am but half-grown.  I am a raw and impleasing fruit even to my own palate.  John Walden is a ripe and mellow creature,—­moreover, he seems still ripening in constant sunshine.  I go every Sunday to hear him preach, because he reminds me of so much that I had forgotten.”

Here they went into luncheon.  Maryllia threw off her hat as she seated herself at the head of the table, ruffling her hair with the action into prettier waves of brown-gold.  Her cheeks were softly flushed,—­her blue eyes radiant.

“You are a better parishioner than I am, Mr. Adderley!”—­she said—­ “I have not been to church once since I came home.  I never go to church.”

“Naturally!  I quite understand!  Few people of any education or intelligence can stand it nowadays,” he replied—­“The Christian myth is well-nigh exploded.  Yet one cannot help having a certain sympathy and interest in men, who, like Mr. Walden, appear to still honestly believe in it.”

“The Christian myth!” echoed Cicely—­“My word!  You do lay down the law!  Where should we be without the ‘myth’ I wonder?”

“Pretty much where we are now,”—­said Julian—­“Two thousand years of the Christian dispensation leaves the world still pagan.  Self-indulgence is still paramount.  Wealth still governs both classes and masses.  Politics are still corrupt.  Trade still plays its old game of ‘beggar my neighbour.’  What would you!  And in this day there is no restraining influence on the laxity of social morals.  Literature is decadent,—­likewise Painting;—­Sculpture and Poetry are moribund.  Man’s inborn monkeyishness is obtaining the upper hand and bearing him back to his natural filth,—­and the glimmerings of the Ideal as shown forth in a few examples of heroic and noble living are like the flash of the rainbow-arch spanning a storm-cloud,—­beautiful, but alas!—­evanescent.”

“I’m afraid you are right”—­said Maryllia, with a little sigh; “It is very sad and discouraging, but I fear very true.”

“It’s nothing of the kind!”—­declared Cicely, with quick vehemence—­ “It’s just absolute nonsense!  It is!  Ah, ’never shake thy gory locks at me,’ Sir Moon-Calf!” and she made a little grimace across the table at Julian, who responded to it with a complacent smile—­“You can talk, talk, talk—­of course! every man that ever sat in clubs, smoking and drinking, can talk one’s head off—­but you’ve got to live, as well as talk!  What do you know about self-indulgence being ‘paramount,’ except in your own case, eh?  Do you think at all of the thousands and thousands of poor creatures everywhere, who completely sacrifice their lives to the needs of others?”

“Of course there are such—­” admitted Adderley; “But—–­”