Miltoun would not have obeyed that invitation from anyone else, but
there was something about Lord Dennis which people did not resist; his
power lay in a dry ironic suavity which could not but persuade people
that impoliteness was altogether too new and raw a thing to be indulged
in.
The two sat side by side on the roots of trees. At first they talked
a little of birds, and then were dumb, so dumb that the invisible
creatures of the woods consulted together audibly. Lord Dennis broke
that silence.
"This place," he said, "always reminds me of Mark Twain's
writings--can't tell why, unless it's the ever-greenness. I like the
evergreen philosophers, Twain and Meredith. There's no salvation except
through courage, though I never could stomach the 'strong man'--captain
of his soul, Henley and Nietzsche and that sort--goes against the grain
with me. What do you say, Eustace?"
"They meant well," answered Miltoun, "but they protested too much."
Lord Dennis moved his head in assent.
"To be captain of your soul!" continued Miltoun in a bitter voice; "it's
a pretty phrase!"
"Pretty enough," murmured Lord Dennis.
Miltoun looked at him.
"And suitable to you," he said.
"No, my dear," Lord Dennis answered dryly, "a long way off that, thank
God!"
His eyes were fixed intently on the place where a large trout had
risen in the stillest toffee-coloured pool.
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