was akin to his own nature, although placed in different, perhaps more
dramatic, circumstances.

Dr. Levillier combined, to some appreciable extent, the different joys
of his two companions, and obtained another that was quite his own. He
had seen two horses running in double harness that night, the body and
mind of the hero, and had taken delight in observing what had practically
escaped the definite notice of his companions, the ingenuity and subtlety
with which the author, without being obtrusive or insistent, had
displayed their _liaison_; the effect of each upon the other, their
answering excursions and alarums, their attempts at separate _amours_,
_amours_ that always had an inevitable effect upon the one which the
other had, for the moment, endeavoured to exclude from its life. The
doctor in him and the priest in him had both enjoyed a glorious evening
of bracing activity. As they discussed the piece, and each advanced his
reason of pleasure, the doctor expanded into a sort of saintly geniality,
which was peculiarly attractive even to sinners. And when supper was
over, and they strolled into the drawing-room to smoke and to make music,
he sank into a chair, stretched out his polished boots with a sigh, and
said:

"And people say there is so little joy in life!"

Julian laughed at the satisfied whimsicality of his exclamation and of
the expression which shadowed it.

"Light up, doctor," he cried. "You are a boon to this modern world. For
you see all the sorrows of life, I suppose, and yet you always manage to
convey the impression that the joys win the battle after all."