Their fishy eyes defy me to challenge their hidden thoughts. Each
covers his miserable secret under the cloak of a wholesome manly
indifference. A tattered cloak. . . . Each tries to hide his
abandonment to this horrible vice of continence--"
"Billy, what's the matter with you?"
Prothero grimaced impatience. "Shall I NEVER teach you not to be a
humbug, Benham?" he screamed, and in screaming became calmer.
"Nature taunts me, maddens me. My life is becoming a hell of shame.
'Get out from all these books,' says Nature, 'and serve the Flesh.'
The Flesh, Benham. Yes--I insist--the Flesh. Do I look like a pure
spirit? Is any man a pure spirit? And here am I at Cambridge like
a lark in a cage, with too much port and no Aspasia. Not that I
should have liked Aspasia."
"Mutual, perhaps, Billy."
"Oh! you can sneer!"
"Well, clearly--Saint Paul is my authority--it's marriage, Billy."
Prothero had walked to the window. He turned round.
"I CAN'T marry," he said. "The trouble has gone too far. I've lost
my nerve in the presence of women.
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