"
"And send the chariot of fire to the coach-house, and the horses of fire
to the nearest stables?"
"Exactly!"
"Well, but give me a reason for this rascally craving."
"A reason! Oh, I hate my nature and I love yours. What a curse it is to
go through life eternally haunted by one's self; worse than being married
to an ugly and boring wife."
"Now you are being morbid."
"Well, I'm telling you just how I feel."
"That is being morbid. Recording to some people who claim to direct
Society."
"The world's County Council, who would like to abolish all the public
bars."
"And force us to do our drinking in the privacy of our bedrooms."
"You would never do any drinking, Valentine. How could you, the Saint of
Victoria Street?"
"I begin to hate that nickname."
And he frowned slowly. Tall, fair, curiously innocent-looking, his
face was the face of a blonde ascetic. His blue eyes were certainly not
cold, but nobody could imagine that they would ever gleam with passion or
with desire as they looked upon sin. His mouth seemed made for prayer,
not for kisses; and so women often longed to kiss it. Over him, indeed,
intellectuality hung like a light veil, setting him apart from the uproar
which the world raises while it breaks the ten commandments.
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