Mount Dunstan did not attempt to refute the statement, and Anstruthers laughed low again.

“It is an asset she knows the value of quite clearly.  That is the interesting part of it.  She has inherited the far-seeing commercial mind.  She does not object to admitting it.  She educated herself in delightful cold blood that she might be prepared for the largest prize appearing upon the horizon.  She held things in view when she was a child at school, and obviously attacked her French, German, and Italian conjugations with a twelve-year-old eye on the future.”

Mount Dunstan leaning back carelessly in his chair, laughed—­as it seemed—­with him.  Internally he was saying that the man was a liar who might always be trusted to lie, but he knew with shamed fury that the lies were doing something to his soul—­rolling dark vapours over it—­stinging him, dragging away props, and making him feel they had been foolish things to lean on.  This can always be done with a man in love who has slight foundation for hope.  For some mysterious and occult reason civilisation has elected to treat the strange and great passion as if it were an unholy and indecent thing, whose dominion over him proper social training prevents any man from admitting openly.  In passing through its cruelest phases he must bear himself as if he were immune, and this being the custom, he may be called upon to endure much without the relief of striking out with manly blows.  An enemy guessing his case and possessing the infernal gift whose joy is to dishearten and do hurt with courteous despitefulness, may plant a poisoned arrow here and there with neatness and fine touch, while his bound victim can, with decency, neither start, nor utter brave howls, nor guard himself, but must sit still and listen, hospitably supplying smoke and drink and being careful not to make an ass of himself.

Therefore Mount Dunstan pushed the cigars nearer to his visitor and waved his hand hospitably towards the whisky and soda.  There was no reason, in fact, why Anstruthers—­or any one indeed, but Penzance, should suspect that he had become somewhat mad in secret.  The man’s talk was marked merely by the lightly disparaging malice which was rarely to be missed from any speech of his which touched on others.  Yet it might have been a thing arranged beforehand, to suggest adroitly either lies or truth which would make a man see every sickeningly good reason for feeling that in this contest he did not count for a man at all.

“It has all been pretty obvious,” said Sir Nigel.  “There is a sort of cynicism in the openness of the siege.  My impression is that almost every youngster who has met her has taken a shot.  Tommy Alanby scrambling up from his knees in one of the rose-gardens was a satisfying sight.  His much-talked-of-passion for Jane Lithcom was temporarily in abeyance.”

The rain swirled in a torrent against the window, and casually glancing outside at the tossing gardens he went on.