“You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. You will agree with me when you have heard what I have to say.
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