‘Yes, but,’ she repeated. ‘That “but” makes all the difference. But this is Lucian Damerel--he is a child who sits in a gaily caparisoned, comfortably appointed boat which has been launched on a wide river that runs through a mighty valley. He has neither sail nor rudder, and he is so intent on the beauty of the scenery through which he is swept that he does not recognise their necessity. His eyes are fixed on the rose-flushed peak of a far-off mountain, the glitter of the sunshine on a dancing wave, or on the basket of provisions which thoughtful hands have put in the boat. It may be that the boat will glide to its destination in safety, and land him on the edge of a field of velvety grass wherein he can lie down in peace to dream as long as he pleases. But it also may be that it will run on a rock in mid-stream and knock his fool’s paradise into a cocked hat--and what’s going to happen then?’ asked Lady Firmanence. ‘Lots of things might happen,’ said Saxonstowe, smiling triumphantly at the thought of beating his clever relative at her own game. ‘He might be able to swim, for example. He might right the boat, get into it again, and learn by experience that one shouldn’t go fooling about without a rudder. Some other chap might come along and give him a hand. Or the river might be so shallow that he could walk ashore with no more discomfort than he would get from wet feet.’ Lady Firmanence pursed her lips and regarded her nephew with a fixed stare which lasted until the smile died out of his face. ‘Or there might be a crocodile, or an alligator, at hand, which he could saddle and bridle, and convert into a park hack,’ she said. ‘There are indeed many things which might happen; what I’m chiefly concerned about is, what would happen if Lucian’s little boat did upset? I confess that I should know Lucian Damerel much more thoroughly, and have a more accurate conception of him, if I knew exactly what he would say and do when the upsetting happened. There is no moment in life, Saxonstowe, wherein a man’s real self, real character, real quality, is so severely tested and laid bare as that unexpected one in which Fortune seizes him by the scruff of his neck and bundles him into the horsepond of adversity--it’s what he says and does when he comes up spluttering that stamps him as a man or a mouse.’ Saxonstowe felt tolerably certain of what any man would say under the circumstances alluded to by Lady Firmanence, but as she seemed highly delighted with her similes and her epigrams, he said nothing of his convictions, and soon afterwards took his departure. CHAPTER XX