“That is why I would not have Lewis reckoned one mistakenly, as I have been. There is something not altogether human about genius; it is always a miracle. It places a man apart from his fellows. He is an immortal among mortals. He is a man among centaurs. Give a man all the talent he can carry, but spare him genius if you would have him happy. There must be geniuses in the world, but let not Lewis Pryor be one of them, nor let him--let him be falsely reckoned one!” CHAPTER X. The races had always been a great event in the county, but Skelton’s presence and personal interest in them, and his large outlay upon his stable, gave an increased zest to the sport. On Sundays the gentlemen of the county scarcely went in church until sermon-time at all now, but sat around on the tombstones and talked horse unflaggingly. When it rained they gathered in the low porch of the church, and the murmur of their voices penetrated the great doors and accompanied Mr. Conyers’s voice during the liturgy. Mr. Conyers had conscientious scruples about racing, as he had about everything else, and, seeing how much his congregation was given over to it, and hearing of the large sums of money that would change hands at the spring meeting, he took it upon himself to preach a sermon against the cult of the horse. Skelton, for a wonder, happened to be at church that Sunday with Lewis. As the clergyman preached earnestly and plainly, inveighing against the state of affairs, people had very little trouble in fitting his remarks to certain individuals. He spoke of the wrong of men of great wealth and personal influence throwing both in the scales of demoralising sports; and every eye was turned on Skelton, who bore it unflinchingly and even smilingly. His dark, well-cut face, with its high nose and firm chin, was clearly outlined against the ridiculous purple-silk curtains of his pew. But he did not move an eyelash under the scrutiny of the whole congregation. When Conyers branched off, denouncing the greater folly and wickedness of men who could ill afford it risking their all upon a matter so full of uncertainties, chances, and cheats as racing, that brought Blair upright in his pew. He folded his arms and glared angrily at the preacher. No cool composure was there, but red-hot wrath, scarcely restrained. Then it was old Tom Shapleigh’s turn. Tom was a vestryman, and that was the handle that Conyers had against him when he spoke of the evil example of older men who should be the pillars of decorum, and who were connected with the church, giving themselves over to these pernicious amusements. Old Tom was the most enthusiastic turfite going, and, having become one of the managers of the Campdown course, had not been to a single meeting of the vestry since that event. But he could not have been kept away from the managers’ meeting except by tying him. Mr. Shapleigh was in a rage within half a minute, bustling about in his pew, and slapping his prayer-book together angrily.