not for kisses; and so women often longed to kiss it. Over him, indeed,
intellectuality hung like a light veil, setting him apart from the uproar
which the world raises while it breaks the ten commandments. Julian, on
the other hand, was brown, with bright, eager eyes, and the expression of
one who was above all things intensely human. Valentine had ever been,
and still remained, to him a perpetual wonder, a sort of beautiful
mystery. He actually reverenced this youth who stood apart from all the
muddy ways of sin, too refined, as it seemed, rather than too religious,
to be attracted by any wile of the devil's, too completely artistic to
feel any impulse towards the subtle violence which lurks in all the
vagaries of the body. Valentine was to Julian a god, but in their mutual
relations this fact never became apparent. On the contrary, Valentine
was apt to look up to Julian with admiration, and the curious respect
often felt by those who are good by temperament for those who are
completely human. And Julian loved Valentine for looking up to him,
finding in this absurd modesty of his friend a crowning beauty of
character. He had never told Valentine the fact that Valentine kept
him pure, held his bounding nature in leash, was the wall of fire that
hedged him from sin, the armour that protected him against the assaults
of self. He had never told Valentine this secret, which he cherished
with the exceeding and watchful care men so often display in hiding
that which does them credit. For who is not a pocket Byron nowadays?
But to-night was fated by the Immortals to be a night of self-revelation.
And Valentine led the way by taking a step that surprised Julian not a
little. For as Valentine frowned he said:

"Yes, I begin to hate my nickname, and I begin to hate myself."

Julian could not help smiling at the absurdity of this bemoaning.