Mr. Keith paused, but it was only to take breath.

“Did he?” enquired Denis.  “The sense of proportion—­”

“The tail of a cow was just as important to him as the tail of a comet; more important, if it could be turned into a joke.  Look at the back of his mind and you will always see the same thing:  horror of a fact.  That is what lies before you, Denis, if, in a world of facts, you refuse to assimilate them.  They will disagree with you, as they disagreed with Butler.  They will drive you where they drove him—­into abstractions.  Others went the same way.  The painter Watts, for instance.  He also suffered under the reign of giants.  He also took refuge in abstractions.  Faith leading Hope towards Despair.  Why don’t you write a book about these things, Denis?”

“I am going to be an artist.”

“An Artist?  That is better than a poet.  Verse-making is a little out of date, is it not?  It corresponds to juvenile stages of human development.  Poets are a case of genepistasis.  If they would at least get a new stock of ideas!  Their demonology is so hopelessly threadbare.  But why an artist?  I think you were made for a bank manager, Denis.  Don’t look so surprised.  Everybody grows up, you know.  Shelley, if he had lived long enough, would have become a passable gentleman farmer.  You can take my word for that.”

“I suppose I shall have to,” replied the young man.

“Don’t take Mr. Keith’s word for anything!” said a voice behind his shoulder.

It was Don Francesco, who had come upon them unawares.  He now removed his hat and began to mop his forehead and various double chins with a many-tinted handkerchief as large as a tablecloth.

“My dear Don Francesco!” said Keith.  “You always interrupt me in the middle of my sermons.  What shall we do with you?”

“Give me something to drink,” replied the priest.  “Else I shall evaporate, leaving nothing but a grease stain on this beautiful garden path.”

“To evaporate,” said Keith, with a tinge of sadness in his voice.  “What an ideal resolution!”

“I’ll get some wine out of the house,” suggested Denis politely.  “But first of all tell me this.  Mr. Keith has been giving me his recipe for happiness.  What is yours?”

“Happiness is a question of age.  The bachelor of forty—­he is the happy man.”

“That does not help me much,” said Denis.  “But I’ll get your wine, all the same.”

He went.

“A nice young fellow,” observed the priest.  “This little accident of yours,” he continued, “does not reflect itself on your face.  You always look like a baby, Keith.  What is your secret?  I believe you have concluded a pact with the devil for your soul.”

“To tell you the truth, Don Francesco, he never made me an offer for it.”

“Sensible devil!  He knows he will get it sooner or later for nothing.”