In him, more perhaps than the others--more certainly than
he knew himself--the sea wind went to the head like wine.

"Credulity is a curious thing," went on Treherne in a low voice.
"It is more negative than positive, and yet it is infinite.
Hundreds of men will avoid walking under a ladder;
they don't know where the door of the ladder will lead.
They don't really think God would throw a thunderbolt at them
for such a thing. They don't know what would happen, that is
just the point; but yet they step aside as from a precipice.
So the poor people here may or may not believe anything;
they don't go into those trees at night."

"I walk under a ladder whenever I can," cried Vane,
in quite unnecessary excitement.

"You belong to a Thirteen Club," said the poet. "You walk under a ladder
on Friday to dine thirteen at a table, everybody spilling the salt.
But even you don't go into those trees at night."

Squire Vane stood up, his silver hair flaming in the wind.

"I'll stop all night in your tomfool wood and up your tomfool trees,"
he said. "I'll do it for twopence or two thousand pounds, if anyone
will take the bet."

Without waiting for reply, he snatched up his wide white hat and settled
it on with a fierce gesture, and had gone off in great leonine strides
across the lawn before anyone at the table could move.