"But that is only a confusion of words, Arthur. What do you mean by 'eternal verities' if not adherence to facts? The eternal verities cannot be whatever it pleases any one to say. Doesn't all human intercourse depend upon faith in one another that we will adhere to facts? Even if you do not look at the right and the wrong, there are surely reasons enough why the truth should be sacred." Her husband whiffed his cigar, idly blowing a succession of graceful rings. "You are quite a metaphysician. Did you have a pleasant dinner?" "But, Arthur," Edith persisted, ignoring his attempt to break away, according to his habit, from a discussion which did not please him, "but, Arthur, do you think it right for Mrs. Greyson--Mrs. Ashton, I mean, to live so?" "Right? Oh, that is the same old question in another shape. Mr. Candish will answer all those theological riddles; it is his business to. They don't interest me." He threw away his half smoked cigar, dusted his coat sleeve of a stray fleck of ash, settled his cravat before the glass, and humming a tune walked towards his wife, his hands clasped behind him. "We do not agree, Edith," he said with cold deliberation, "and unless you broaden your views, I am afraid we never shall. You are a dozen decades behind the day, and are foolish enough to take all your church teaches you in earnest. Religion should no more be taken without salt than radishes. The church inculcates it to excuse its own existence, but you certainly are reasonable enough to outgrow this old-fashioned Puritanism." "Arthur," was her answer, "we do not agree, and if you wait for me to come to your standards, I am afraid you are right in saying that we never shall; and, indeed, I hope you are right. It makes me more unhappy than you can think," she continued, her eyes swimming with bitter tears, "that we are so far apart on what I must believe to be vital points; on truths which I believe, Arthur, with my whole soul--as you would, too, had you not carefully educated yourself into a doubt which cannot make you better or happier." She had risen as she spoke, and stood facing him, her pure, pale face confronting his with a look of pathos which touched him despite himself. She came a step nearer, and put her arms about his neck. "Oh, Arthur!" she pleaded, "I love you, and how can I help mourning that you wrong your better nature; that you resist the impulses of your own best self?" He yielded to her caresses in silence. He remembered that Helen had used this same phrase. "Women always appeal to one's best self," he commented inly, with a mental shrug, "which means a man's inclination to do whatever a woman asks of him." But he kissed his wife's lips, and said, tolerantly: "We will talk it over some other time, my dear. We are both tired to-night. But you are right, I suppose, as you always are." And she loosened her arms from his neck, recognizing that he had put her appeal aside and waived the whole matter. XXIX.