Later, Martin played, there was Bridge, and Lord Sunningdale, as usual, went to sleep, and, on awaking, revoked, subsequently explaining the revoke to the satisfaction of everybody but his partner, who remained dissatisfied to the last. Women took bed-candles, men gravitated to the smoking-room, though, since every one had previously smoked in the drawing-room, this seemed unnecessary. But, the fact is one without exception, men left alone leave drawing-rooms. Soon, again, after the long day’s shoot, the smoking-room yawned itself to bed, and cabinet ministers, the traveller, and the astronomer being gone, Frank was left alone with Martin. There was no design in the matter,--both hated going to bed as much as both detested getting up, but they were neither of them sorry to have the opportunity of more talk. Frank had got up from his chair on the last exit, took a whiskey-and-soda, and moved to the fireplace. “Lady Sunningdale is extraordinarily clever,” he remarked, “but I can no more discuss anything with her than I could with a dragon-fly. She is always darting.” Martin laughed. “Go on, then,” he said. Frank sat down. “Are you determined, Martin?” he asked. “I think so. I don’t see what else I can do.” “I asked you a question before dinner, which you didn’t have time to answer. Is it as much to you as Chopin?” “Why do you repeat that?” asked Martin. “It does not seem to me apt. How can I make such a comparison?” “Easily, I should have thought.” Again Martin’s likeness to his father started to his face. “You say, ‘easily,’” he said. “Take this, then. What would you do if in order to get Helen you had to tell a real, mortal, mean lie, the sort of lie that would make you blush in the dark?” “It’s like that, is it?” “Yes; just like that. I must. I can’t tell you why. I don’t know whether I know, except as regards what I said in Lady Sunningdale’s room, that, if in anything, in worship above all is beauty necessary. That is true, but it is only a sort of symbol of what I feel. Other people feel differently; they are less materialistic than I, and ugliness doesn’t get in their way. But if you happen to be gifted or cursed with the artistic temperament--Lord, how priggish that sounds!--I don’t see how you can help demanding beauty in the service of what is sublime.” “I never knew you thought about these things,” said Frank, rather lamely. Martin snapped his fingers impatiently. “More fool you, old chap,” said he. “All the same, I don’t see why you should have. So I’ll apologise. Probably you thought that because one has high spirits, a really fine capacity for playing the fool, and also a certain leaning towards the piano, that I never took anything seriously. Nor did I till lately. In any case, this is really so much more my concern than anybody’s. I’ve got to lead my own life, not to be dragged about like a sheep. And I must.” He paused a moment.