“Very likely—the bigger fool a man is, the more he is vanquished by brain, especially if it keeps itself in the background and doesn’t frighten him. He likes the agreeable sensation of importance the possible possession of such a power gives him, and in his state of nervous tension, the creature is apt to get mixed and to imagine that the power he worships radiates somehow from him to his idol instead of contrariwise.” “A very comprehensive summary of our modes of thought, my dear, racy but untrustworthy. I don’t, however, imagine that in Gwen’s case any man is quite ass enough to imagine himself the source of her intellectual strength.” “Oh, perhaps not, Gwen’s getting beyond me. If she goes on like this, between brains and beauty, she’ll be no better than a charnel house for crushed hearts. Pah!” “For the shadow of the things, not the substance—do you imagine the victims haven’t as firm a hold on their organs as ever they had? It’s only an idea they lose half the times.” “Well, they make as much moan over it as if it were a very tangible flesh-and-blood article all bristling with nerves. I hate to look at Patrick’s face, I wish he would go and shoot buffaloes, or take a tonic, or do anything but drink tea in that chair and draw sympathy out of me with those soft cowey eyes of his! He had only just left when you came.” “I should be glad for your digestion’s sake if he would recover himself, you’ve swallowed three cups of tea in ten minutes.” “Yes, to wash out the memory of that boy!” “Rather a roundabout way to go to work; if you don’t look out Pat’s heart will be sound long before your digestive organs are.” “Never mind, they haven’t a tinge of Americanism about them, they haven’t so much as caught the accent. But how can you keep on being so hopeful of Gwen? I am downright miserable about her.” “I have the greatest trust in the girl, my feeling about her is like faith, it is inexplicable, but it’s so natural, so instinctive and ingrained one feels its truth.” “I suppose in the end she will marry,” said Mrs. Fellowes, “it’s the natural end or beginning of her.” “Then—well, it’s not a very original observation to make, but it’s the only one that comes to my mind—God help her!” “_God help him more!_ Poor wretch, he’ll want it all!” CHAPTER XV. HUMPHREY Strange gave a sort of snort, made for the window, and threw it open. “Gru! This room is beastly, I’ll swear that window hasn’t been open for a month, the whole place is fusty with mildew. The beggar is drunk or the wire was delayed—I’ll have a fire anyway.” By the way he went about making it, it was easy to see the man knew his work. First he shoved his stick up the chimney to see if that was free, then he looked round. “Plenty of kindling!” he muttered, pouncing on a band-box in the corner with a battered old hat in it. “Tolly’s, I’ll be bound, reeking with grease,—a direct interposition of Providence, this!”