She poured this simple philosophy into Doctor Mary’s ears, vouching Alec’s authority for its application to Beaumaroy.  The theory was too simple for Mary, whose profession had shown her at all events something of the complexity of human nature; and she was no infallibilist; she would bow unquestioningly to no man’s authority, not even to Alec’s, much as she liked and admired him.  There was even a streak of contrariness in her; what she might have said to herself she was prone to criticize or contradict, if it were too confidently or urgently pressed on her by another; perhaps, too, Cynthia’s claim to be the Captain’s mouthpiece stirred up in her a latent resentment; it was not to be called a jealousy; it was rather an amused irritation at both the divinity and his worshiper.  His worshipers can sometimes make a divinity look foolish.

Her own interview with Beaumaroy at the Cottage had left her puzzled, distrustful—­and attracted.  She suspected him vaguely of wanting to use her for some purpose of his own; in spite of the swift plausibility of his explanation, she was nearly certain that he had lied to her about the combination knife-and-fork.  Yet his account of his own position in regard to Mr. Saffron had sounded remarkably candid, and the more so because he made no pretensions to an exalted attitude.  It had been left to her to define the standard of sensitive honor; his had been rather that of safety or, at the best, that of what the world would think, or even of what the hated cousins might attempt to prove.  But there again she was distrustful, both of him and of her own judgment.  He might be—­it seemed likely—­one of those men who conceal the good as well as the bad in themselves, one of the morally shy men.  Or again, perhaps, one of the morally diffident, who shrink from arrogating to themselves high standards because they fear for their own virtue if it be put to the test, and cling to the power of saying, later on, “Well, I told you not to expect too much from me!” Such various types of men exist, and they do not fall readily into either of Cynthia’s two classes; they are neither Cransters nor Alecs; certainly not in thought, probably not in conduct.  He had said at Old Place, the first time that she met him, that the war had destroyed all his scruples.  That might be true; but it was hardly the remark of a man naturally unscrupulous.

She met him one day at Old Place about a week after Christmas.  The Captain was not there; he was at her own house, with Cynthia.  With the rest of the family Beaumaroy was at his best; gaily respectful to Mrs. Naylor, merry with Gertie, exchanging cut and thrust with old Mr. Naylor, easy and cordial towards herself.  Certainly an attractive human being and a charming companion, pre-eminently natural.  “One talks of taking people as one finds them,” old Naylor said to her when they were left alone together for a few minutes by the fire, while the others chatted by the window.  “That fellow takes himself as he finds himself!  Not as a pattern, a failure, or a problem, but just as a fact—­a psychological fact.”