And he caught himself wondering why,--whenever he came near the Lady of the Manor,--he was anxious to seem less artificial, less affected, and more of a man than his particular 'Omar Kayyam' set had taught him to be. The same praiseworthy desire moved him in the company of John Walden, therefore sex could have nothing to do with it. Was it 'Soul'?--that 'breath of God' which had been spoken of in the pulpit that morning?
He could not, however, dwell upon this rather serious proposition at luncheon, his thoughts being distracted by the conversation, if conversation it could be called, that was buzzing on either side of the table, amidst the clattering of plates and the popping of champagne corks. It was neither brilliant, witty nor impersonal,-- brilliant, witty and impersonal talk is never generated in modem society nowadays. "I would much rather listen to the conversation of lunatics in the common room of an asylum, than to the inane gabble of modern society in a modern drawing-room"--said a late distinguished politician to the present writer--"For the lunatics always have the glimmering of an idea somewhere in their troubled brains, but modern society has neither brains nor ideas." Fragmentary sentences, often slangy, and occasionally ungrammatical, seemed most in favour with the Manor 'house-party,'--and for a time splinters of language flew about like the chips from dry timber under a woodman's axe, without shape, or use, or meaning. It was a mere confused and senseless jabber--a jabber in which Maryllia took no part. She sat very quietly looking from one face to the other at table with a critical interest. These were the people she had met every day more or less in London,--some of them had visited her aunt constantly, and had invited her out to dinners and luncheons, 'at homes,' balls and race parties, and all were considered to be 'very select' in every form that is commended by an up-to-date civilisation. Down here, in the stately old-world surroundings of Abbot's Manor, they looked very strange to her,--nay, even more than strange. Clowns, columbines and harlequins with all their 'make-up' on, could not have seemed more out of place than these socially popular persons in the historic house of her ancestors. Lady Beaulyon was perhaps the most remarkable 'revelation' of the whole company. Maryllia had always admired Eva Beaulyon with quite an extravagant admiration, on account of her physical charm and grace,- -and had also liked her sufficiently well to entirely discredit the stories that were rife about the number of her unlawful amours. That she was an open flirt could not be denied,--but that she ever carried a flirtation beyond bounds, Maryllia would never have believed. Now, however, a new light seemed thrown upon her--there was a touch of something base in her beauty--a flash of cruelty in her smile--a hardness in her eyes. Maryllia looked at her wistfully now and then, and was half sorry she had invited her, the disillusion was so complete.