"I never will, I promise. But, I say, you know, Da Boase"--the childhood name slipped out unawares--"I don't think I care about that sort of thing--girls and all that. Not like Killigrew." The Parson hid a smile. "You will not ripen as early as Killigrew, in all probability," he said, "but one does not have a temper such as yours without other passions. There is another thing. Men of the world--Killigrew, when he is a little older--will tell you that it is possible and right to gratify those passions at less cost than the embroilment your father made about him. Casual intercourse where no such question arises.... Do not listen to that either. If it is possible for you to be one of those who carry an undimmed banner, do. People often talk as though purity were negative, whereas it is very actual. Keep it as a beautiful thing that once lost is gone for ever at whatever gain of experience or even understanding." "I really don't want that sort of thing," persisted Ishmael a little outraged he should not be thought to know best. "However that may be," said the Parson, rather sharply, "different by nature or grace, you should never let your difference make you feel superior. A person who despises or fails to sympathise with all the sorrow and the sin in the lives of others is the worst of sinners. There are even times when chastity can be very chill and bare, though purity is always lovely." "But you were saying----" began Ishmael, then stopped. "I think I do know what you mean," he said more humbly. The Parson made no reply, but, stopping in his walk, looked over a low wall of loose granite and laid his arms along it. "Come and look here a minute," he said. The sun had died away, but the mist had not returned, and a still greyness held the world in the low-lying part of the moor which they had reached.