Alwyn smiled, courteously enough.  “I shall be happy to hear your views on the subject, sir,” he answered gently—­“But I must tell you that before I left England for the East, I had studied that theory, together with many others that were offered as substitutes for Christianity, and I found it totally inadequate to meet the highest demands of the spiritual intelligence.  I may also add, that I have read carefully all the principal works against Religion,—­from the treatises of the earliest skeptics down to Voltaire and others of our own day.  Moreover, I had, not so very long ago, rejected the Christian Faith; that I now accept and adhere to it, is not the result of my merit or attainment,—­but simply the outcome of an undeserved blessing and singularly happy fortune.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Alwyn”—­said Madame de la Santoisie with a sweet smile—­“By all the laws of nature I must contradict you there!  Your fame and fortune must needs be the reward of merit,—­since true happiness never comes to the undeserving.”

Alwyn made no reply,—­inasmuch as to repudiate the idea of personal merit too warmly is, as such matters are judged nowadays, suggestive of more conceit than modesty.  He skilfully changed the conversation, and it glided off by degrees into various other channels,—­music, art, science, and the political situation of the hour.  The men and women assembled, as though stimulated and inspired by some new interest, now strove to appear at their very best—­and the friction of intellect with intellect resulted in more or less brilliancy of talk, which, for once, was totally free from the flippant and mocking spirit which usually pervaded the Santoisie social circle.  On all the subjects that came up for discussion Alwyn proved himself thoroughly at home—­and M. le Duc, sitting in a silence that was most unwonted with him, became filled with amazement to think that this man, so full of fine qualities and intellectual abilities, should be actually a Christian!—­The thing was quite incongruous, or seemed so to the ironical wit of the born and bred Parisian,—­he tried to consider it absurd,—­even laughable,—­but his efforts merely resulted in a sense of uneasy personal shame.  This poet was, at any rate, a man,—­he might have posed for a Coriolanus or Marc Antony;—­and there was something supreme about him that could not be sneered down.

The dinner, meanwhile, reached its dessert climax, and the Duchess rose, giving the customary departing signal to her lady-guests.  Alwyn hastened to open the door for her, and she passed out, followed by a train of women in rich and rustling costumes, all of whom, as they swept past the kingly figure that with slightly bent head and courteous mien thus paid silent homage to their sex, were conscious of very unusual emotions of respect and reverence.  How would it be, some of them thought, if they were more frequently brought into contact with such royal and gracious manhood?  Would not love then become indeed a hallowed glory, and marriage a true sacrament!  Was it not possible for men to be the gods of this world, rather than the devils they so often are?  Such were a few of the questions that flitted dimly through the minds of the society-fagged fair ones that clustered round the Duchess de la Santoisie, and eagerly discussed Alwyn’s personal beauty and extraordinary charm of manner.