South Wind Part 12

He cla.s.sifies minerals or blasts out a tunnel. Woman creates physiologically; she supplies the essential, the raw material; her n.o.blest product is a child. I get on splendidly with women, because we both realize the stupidity of the average s.e.x-twaddle. We have no illusions about each other. We know exactly what we are after. We know exactly how to attain it. I tell you what, Phipps, Female Emanc.i.p.ation is going to do away with a lot of cant and idealism. Knock the silly male on the head. There'll be an end of your chast.i.ty-worship, once women are fairly started on the game. They won't put up with it."

"Disgusting," said Denis. "Go on."

"I'm done. What, sanidin again?"

Denis still held the stone in his hand. He was thinking, however, of other things. He liked to collect fresh ideas, to be impregnated with the mentality of other people--he knew how much he had to learn. But he would have preferred his mind to be moulded gently, in artistic fashion. Marten's style was more like random blows from a sledge-hammer, half of them wide of the mark. It was not very edifying, or even instructive. Keith was the same. Why was everybody so violent, so extreme in their views?

Marten repeated:

"Sanidin?"

"It might be sanidin in places," replied Denis. "I do know a little something about crystals, Marten. I have read Ruskin's ETHICS OF THE DUST."

"Ruskin. Good G.o.d! He's not a man; he's an emetic. But you never answered my first question. You always. .h.i.t upon sanidin. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's rather a pretty word, don't you think? It would do for a Christian name. Girls' names are so terribly commonplace. They are always Marjorie, or something. If I had a daughter, I should call her Sanidin."

"You're not likely to find yourself in that position at this rate. If I had a daughter, I know perfectly well what I should call her."

"What?"

"Angelina."

"You would?" asked Denis slowly. "And why?"

"Oh, it's rather a pretty name, don't you think?"

"Not a bad name at all, now I come to think of it. But it sounds foreign. I thought you did not care about foreigners."

"I don't. But there's one--"

"Go on," said Denis.

Mr. Marten winked.

The mists had fled from the hilltops; rocks and vineyards, and the sea at their foot, lay flooded in sunshine. With one accord, the two young men rose from the ground and turned their steps homewards. The mineralogical lesson was over.

"Coming to Keith's to-night?" enquired Marten with a fine show of nonchalance.

"I don't know."

"I would if I were you. They say he does things properly. There'll be an awful crowd--a regular bust-up. He only gives one of these entertainments a year. Dancing and Chinese lanterns and champagne in torrents. Won't you go?"

"Perhaps later in the evening."

Denis was perturbed. He scented a rival in this brutalitarian, though it seemed hardly possible that Angelina should take much notice of him.

Meanwhile, he felt in need of some gentlemanly and soothing influence, after such an outpouring of vulgarity. He thought of the bibliographer.

He liked Eames; he admired that scholarly detachment. He, too, might end in annotating some masterpiece--who knows? To be a bibliographer--what a calm, studious life!

"I think I'll go to Eames," he remarked.

"Really? A colourless creature, that Eames. As dry as a stick; a typical Don. I promised him a mineralogical map, by the way. You might tell him I haven't forgotten, will you? I wonder what you can see in the man?"

"I rather like him," said Denis. "He knows what he wants."

"That is not enough, my young friend!" replied Marten with decision. "A fellow must want something sensible."

"What do you call sensible?"

"Sanidin, and things like that. Things with pretty names. Eh, Phipps?"

Denis said nothing.

His friend continued jovially:

"The tavern mood is upon me. I am going to Luisella's to get a drink.

One gets sick of that Club. Besides, I've taken rather a fancy to that younger sister. The second youngest, I mean; the one with the curly hair--you know! I only wish I knew a bit more Latin."

Luisella's grotto-tavern had become quite a famous rendezvous. You could drop in there at any hour and always find company to your liking.

Don Francesco had a good deal to do with its discovery; he discovered, at all events, the second eldest of the four orphan sisters who managed the house. After a time, having convinced himself that they were all good penitents and being a kindly sort of man, he thought that other people might like to share in the seductions which the place afforded.

He took foreign friends there from time to time, and none were disappointed. The wine was excellent. Russians, excluded from the Club by Mr. Parker's severity, frequented the spot in considerable numbers.

They were nicely treated there. Not many nights previously one of the Master's disciples, the athletic young Peter Krasnojabkin, who was credited with being a protege of Madame Steynlin's, had distinguished himself by drinking sixteen bottles at a sitting. He afterwards smashed a few chairs and things, for which he apologized so prettily next morning that the girls would not hear of his paying for the damage.

"It's all in the family," they said. "Come and break some more!"

That was the way they ran the place, as regards drinks. The quality of the refreshments, too, was quite out of the common. As for the girls themselves--their admirers were legion. They could have married anyone they pleased, had it not been more in accordance with the interests of their business, to say nothing of the personal inclinations, to have only lovers.

As Marten disappeared under that hospitable doorway, I flashed through the mind of Denis that Eames was a confirmed recluse; he might not like being disturbed in the morning.

Besides, he was probably at work.

He thought of going to see the bishop. There was a glamour in the name.

To be a bishop! His mother had sometimes suggested the Church, or at least politics as a career for him, if poetry should fail. But this one was so matter-of-fact and unpretentious in his clothing, his opinions.

A broken-down matrimonial agent, Don Francesco had called him. Mr.

Heard was not his idea of a shepherd of souls; he was only a colonial, anyhow. A grey type of man--nothing purple about him, nothing glowing or ornate. He did not get on particularly well with him either.

Besides, he hardly knew him sufficiently to intrude at this hour of the day.

One thing was certain. He would go to the Cave of Mercury that very evening. Keith was right. He must try to "find himself." He wanted to be alone, to think things out. Or perhaps--no. He did not want to be alone with his thoughts. They were too oppressive just then. He required some kind of company.

Besides, Keith had said "full moon." The moon was not yet quite full.

No!

He would see what the d.u.c.h.ess was doing, and perhaps stay to luncheon.

Eames could wait. So could the bishop. So could the cave. He was fond of the d.u.c.h.ess.

Besides, it was such a quaint place--that austere old convent, built by the Good Duke Alfred.