On the present occasion Arthur Fenton asked leave to light his cigar, and although Herman felt this something of a profanation, it was not long before he and Rangely added their wreaths to the smoke garlands which hung upon the air, and had not the hostess become somewhat accustomed to tobacco in foreign _ateliers,_ it is to be doubted if she could have complacently endured the fumes which arose. All subjects of heaven and earth came drifting into the talk, and at length something evoked from Rangely his opinion of Emerson. "Emerson was great," he said, "Emerson often recalled Goethe in Goethe's cooler and more intellectual moods; but Emerson lacked the loftiness of vice; he was eternally narrow." "'The loftiness of vice,'" echoed the hostess. "What does that mean? It sounds vicious enough." "Emerson," Rangely returned, "knew only half of life. He never had any conception of the passionate longing for vice _per se;_ the thrill, the glow which comes to some men at the splendid caress of sin in her most horrible shape. Do you see what I mean? He couldn't imagine the ecstasy that may lie in mere foulness." "No," replied Helen, "I'm afraid I don't quite see. Though I am sure I ought to be shocked. Do you mean that he should have been vicious?" "Certainly not; but it was his limitation not to be tempted; not to be able to project himself into a personality which riots in wickedness far more intensely than a saint follows righteousness." "If you mean that he could not have been wicked if he tried, that, I own, was in a sense a limitation." "Yes; and a fatal one. No man can be wholly great who understands only one half of human impulses." "But what do you mean by wickedness?" demanded Herman, a little combatively. "Oh," laughed Rangely, "I'm not to be entrapped into giving metaphysical and theological definitions. I mean what we are expected to call wickedness, conventionally speaking. I've an old cad of a parson in my new play and I am trying to decide if it will do to have him advocate a grand scheme for reforming the world by reversing definitions and calling those things men choose to do virtues, and dubbing whatever man detests, vices." "That is rather more clever than orthodox," Helen laughed. "How is your play getting on, Mr. Rangely?" "Oh, fairish, thank you. The trouble is that the drama went out of fashion long ago. First they replaced it by dresses and scenery, but now every thing has given way to souvenir programmes; so I've got to write up to a souvenir or I sha'n't make any thing out of the play." "I hoped you were above such mercenary considerations." "I am trying to make myself so," he retorted. "I think about three successful plays would be tonic enough to bring my conscience up to proper art levels."