Lawton assumed a dignified attitude, and began with mock earnestness: "Oh, wise man--thou who knowest so well the heart and the face of Nature--how little thou knowest of thine own soul!" A shade of anguish swept over the artist's face, but he made no reply. "Most gentle and gifted man! Last night I listened long and patiently to the scintillating wisdom of your wonderful brain. Let me now speak, while you, in turn, give ear. "When, last night, you showed me the portraits and told me their history, I foresaw this moment. You are plunged into despair at the contemplation of your own weakness. You have been abusing your soul with hard names. Now, I would whisper to you with great gentleness that what you observed to me last night, about the sunlight and shadow of every life, is true; and that the brightness of the sun cannot illuminate, but only intensifies the blackness of the shade. Pursuing the same line of reasoning, I add that flowers bloom in the sunlight, while mushrooms thrive in the darkness. That because man is fond of mushrooms is no reason why he should be deprived of flowers. That because your purer and spiritual self reaches out for the stainless lily, is no reason why your material and grosser nature should be left starving. Because you are for a time intoxicated with Evelin March is no reason why, in your calmer and nobler existence, you should not love truly and sinlessly, Eva Delorme. "I am aware that my logic is not wholly in accord with generally accepted theory. It accords much more nearly, perhaps, with universal practice--of course I refer only to men in the single walks of life. It is well known that all men after marriage are irreproachable. And when you have plucked your stainless lily, you, like the rest, will subsist only upon its fragrance. But really, for the present, I cannot see that your affair with Miss March in any way conflicts with your sentiments for Miss Delorme; and especially as you have known the latter but a few hours in all--hardly sufficient, I should think, to inspire a lifelong devotion. Truly, Julian, I would advise you not to take matters quite so seriously, and let the tide drift as it will for the present." Throughout this long harangue Julian Goetze had listened in silence. "Oh, Harry," he groaned, as the other paused, "you don't know what a traitor I am!" "Well, possibly my sensibilities are not over fine, but I think you will be more comfortable for taking my advice." Without replying, the artist rose and going into the adjoining room returned a moment later with a decanter and glasses. "I am tired," he said, apologetically, as he caught the look of disapproval in his friend's eye; "it will do me good." "None for me, Julian, before supper, and--I don't think, if--if I were you, I would take any, either." "I am exhausted, Harry; I am not going to supper and I need it," he said, fretfully.