; you couldn't see any perfect characters in it--only character
in the making, only wretched men and women acting according to certain
disagreeable laws, which are none the less immutable because one half of
the world professes to ignore their existence. You said, 'Take away the
whole world of nature, take away logic and science and art, but leave
me--leave me my ideals!' Isn't that it?"

The torrent of his rhetoric swept her away, she knew not whither. But in
his last words she had caught her cue. If she was ever to be an
influence in Wyndham's life, encouraging, inspiring his best work, she
must not suffer him to speak lightly of "ideals." It seemed to her that
her methods with Ted were crude compared with her management of Wyndham.

"Oh, don't, don't! It's dreadful! But you are right. I can't live
without ideals. All the great artists had them. You have them yourself,
or at least you _had_ them. I don't know what to think about your
book--I can't think, I can only feel; and I read between the lines.
Surely you feel with me that there's nothing worth living for except
morality? Surely you believe in purity and goodness?"

Her face was flushed, her hands were clasped tightly together in her
intensity. So strong was the illusion her manner produced, that for one
second Wyndham could have been convinced of her absolute sincerity. Not
long--no, not long afterwards, her words were to come back to him with
irony.

"Morality? I've the greatest respect for it. But after all, its rules
only mark off one little corner from the plain of life. Out there, in
the open, are the fine landscapes and the great highroads of thought.
And if you are to travel at all, you must go by those ways. There's dust
on them, and there's mud--plenty of mud; but--there are no others."

"I would be very careful where I put my feet, though. I don't like muddy
boots."

"I daresay not; who does? But the traveller is not always thinking about
his boots."

"Don't let's talk about boots." She made a little movement with her
mouth, simulating disgust.

"Your own metaphor; but never mind. _A propos des bottes_, I should
like----" he broke off and added in a deep, hieratic voice, "To the pure
all things are pure, but to the Puritan most things are impure. I wish
I could make you see that; but it's a large subject. And besides, I want
to talk about you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. With all your beliefs, there was a time, if I'm not much
mistaken, when you