"I would rather we were men first and then Englishmen," he muttered;"I think it's all a sort of national illusion, and I can't stand illusions.""If you come to that," said the soldier, "the world lives by illusions. I mean, if you look at history, you'll see that the creation of illusions has always been her business, don't you know."This Shelton was unable to deny.
"So," continued the soldier (who was evidently a highly cultivated man), "if you admit that movement, labour, progress, and all that have been properly given to building up these illusions, that--er--in fact, they're what you might call--er--the outcome of the world's crescendo," he rushed his voice over this phrase as if ashamed of it --"why do you want to destroy them?"Shelton thought a moment, then, squeezing his body with his folded arms, replied:
"The past has made us what we are, of course, and cannot be destroyed; but how about the future? It 's surely time to let in air. Cathedrals are very fine, and everybody likes the smell of incense; but when they 've been for centuries without ventilation you know what the atmosphere gets like."The soldier smiled.
"By your own admission," he said, "you'll only be creating a fresh set of illusions.""Yes," answered Shelton, "but at all events they'll be the honest necessities of the present."The pupils of the soldier's eyes contracted; he evidently felt the conversation slipping into generalities; he answered:
"I can't see how thinking small beer of ourselves is going to do us any good!"An " At Home"
Shelton felt in danger of being thought unpractical in giving vent to the remark:
"One must trust one's reason; I never can persuade myself that Ibelieve in what I don't."
A minute later, with a cordial handshake, the soldier left, and Shelton watched his courteous figure shepherding his wife away.
"Dick, may I introduce you to Mr. Wilfrid Curly?" said his cousin's voice behind, and he found his hand being diffidently shaken by a fresh-cheeked youth with a dome-like forehead, who was saying nervously:
"How do you do? Yes, I am very well, thank you!"He now remembered that when he had first come in he had watched this youth, who had been standing in a corner indulging himself in private smiles. He had an uncommon look, as though he were in love with life--as though he regarded it as a creature to whom one could put questions to the very end--interesting, humorous, earnest questions.
He looked diffident, and amiable, and independent, and he, too, was evidently English.
"Are you good at argument?" said Shelton, at a loss for a remark.
The youth smiled, blushed, and, putting back his hair, replied:
"Yes--no--I don't know; I think my brain does n't work fast enough for argument. You know how many motions of the brain-cells go to each remark. It 's awfully interesting"; and, bending from the waist in a mathematical position, he extended the palm of one hand, and started to explain.
Shelton stared at the youth's hand, at his frowns and the taps he gave his forehead while he found the expression of his meaning; he was intensely interested. The youth broke off, looked at his watch, and, blushing brightly, said:
"I 'm afraid I have to go; I have to be at the 'Den' before eleven.""I must be off, too," said Shelton. Making their adieux together, they sought their hats and coats.
