“And you, satyr, you are the cruellest man I ever met in my life! But judge me, secondly, my lord Viscount de Travest.” “He is the elder brother of honour. He is that rarest of men, a schoolboy who has grown out of his schooldays but remains, by strength of will, a schoolboy. He prefers to be that. He never did an unworthy thing, and has thought less mean ones than most people. Like all decent Englishmen, he is like a woman: he knows everything without ever having been taught anything. He has a profound sense of obedience, therefore he is a good commander. He never thinks when he is alone, lest thoughts should undermine his sense of obedience and paralyse his habit of command. One day a thought will strike him, and instantly he will cease to be the captain of his soul. He is the only man in England who actually believes in obeying the King.” “Oh, how horrified the King would be! And of Sir Maurice, enemy to Iris March, what have you to say? Besides the fact that he is the cleverest man in that room. Oh, he is clever, that Maurice! It was he who had old Truble waiting for me. Judge me that man!” “But I don’t know him, Iris!” “His face is there, man--the proconsular features, the cunning Norman nose, the smile--Oh, my God, the smile! And you won’t, my friend, take my opinion of him?” “Iris, how can you ask me to do that! We can’t take any woman’s opinion of any man. They find evil in good men, they overlook the vices of cads....” “Oh, Maurice is not good, not bad! Only immemorially infantile, like all successful men....” Where we stood now the lawn was damp and velvet-soft, the air whispered of flowers. The light that fell across the lawn from the three tall French-windows reached almost to our feet. It was a long, oak-panelled, scholarly room in which the three men sat, towards one side, about a card-table. They were absorbed in their game, silent figures of black and white. Yes, the fine profile of Sir Maurice seemed apt to smile. Iris murmured: “We will wait for them to finish their game.” As my hand moved to throw away a cigarette I touched a cold stone, and I saw that we were standing by a sun-dial. Iris was looking at me, and clearest of all the happenings of that night I remember that long moment of Iris’s looking, and how, as I looked into her eyes, her beauty seemed to enwrap itself with the whisper of the flowers and enter into my being, so that I cared not for right nor wrong. My hand rested on the sun-dial. She laid her hand on mine, and her hand was colder than the sun-dial. III