Frank understood perfectly, for he had known a long time what Martin had only just learned,--that “form” governed his life. For he did and always had done everything he believed in as well as he could do it, lavishing thereon all the pains and trouble at his command, with the instinctive, open-handed generosity of love. These pains he did not bestow grudgingly, nor count the expenditure; whatever was worth doing was more than worth all the pains he could possibly bestow on it. That impulse lies at the root of every artistic temperament, endless trouble for ever so minute a perfection, ever so infinitesimal a finish. But Frank, like an equitable judge, had to state the other side of the case to Martin. “What will your father say to it?” he asked, using the most commonplace phrase. Martin looked at him quickly. “Same as he said about you and Helen,” he remarked. Lady Sunningdale could not help a little spurt of laughter, the repartee was so exquisitely simple. But she checked it at once. “But it’s too awful for him,” she said. “First Helen and then you. Martin, do you think you ought----“ “I don’t know, but I must,” said Martin. “But it doesn’t hurt you to play a creaky organ. And the stained-glass windows don’t hurt you.” Frank had seen further than this. “How necessary do you feel it?” he asked. “That is the whole point. Is it as necessary as--as Chopin?” The door opened and Hortense entered. “_Sept heures et demi, madame_,” she said. Lady Sunningdale started to her feet. “Monsters, you must go at once,” she cried. “Yes, dear Martin, it is _too_ interesting! You will play to us this evening, won’t you? So glad you could come; and did you ever see such a mess as the dogs have made? But those things don’t hurt you any more than brushing one’s teeth hurts, though it cannot help being a terribly inartistic performance. And you ought to consider Helen, as well. Not that it matters what church one belongs to, as far as I can see. Sunningdale might become a Parsee to-morrow if it would make him any happier, only there really is no sun in England; so I don’t see what he would worship. How nice always to sit in the sun and say one was worshipping! Yes. You extraordinary boy, fancy your being religious in your little inside. I should never have guessed it. But you got quite pink when you talked about Chartries church. Most religious people are so dull. Is that a dreadful thing to say, too? Dinner at eight. Take him and shew him his room, Frank.” * * * * *