She tapped his arm sharply with her fan. "What a humbug you are--the
Great Pretender! But tell me, am I not right about Eglington?"

Windlehurst became grave. "Yes, you are right--but I admire him, too.
He is determined to test himself to the full. His ambition is boundless
and ruthless, but his mind has a scientific turn--the obligation of
energy to apply itself, of intelligence to engage itself to the farthest
limit. But service to humanity--"

"Service to humanity!" she sniffed.

"Of course he would think it 'flap-doodle'--except in a speech; but
I repeat, I admire him. Think of it all. He was a poor Irish peer,
with no wide circle of acquaintance, come of a family none too popular.
He strikes out a course for himself--a course which had its dangers,
because it was original. He determines to become celebrated--by becoming
notorious first. He uses his title as a weapon for advancement as though
he were a butter merchant. He plans carefully and adroitly. He writes
a book of travel. It is impudent, and it traverses the observations of
authorities, and the scientific geographers prance with rage. That was
what he wished. He writes a novel. It sets London laughing at me, his
political chief. He knew me well enough to be sure I would not resent
it. He would have lampooned his grandmother, if he was sure she would
not, or could not, hurt him. Then he becomes more audacious. He
publishes a monograph on the painters of Spain, artificial, confident,
rhetorical, acute: as fascinating as a hide-and-seek drawing-room play--
he is so cleverly escaping from his ignorance and indiscretions all the
while. Connoisseurs laugh, students of art shriek a little, and Ruskin
writes a scathing letter, which was what he had played for. He had got