"Do I mean to do others?" Paul asked, looking up from his sofa at his
erect inquisitor and feeling partly like a happy little boy when the
school-master is gay, and partly like some pilgrim of old who might have
consulted a world-famous oracle. St. George's own performance had been
infirm, but as an adviser he would be infallible.

"Others--others? Ah the number won't matter; one other would do, if it
were really a further step--a throb of the same effort. What I mean is
have you it in your heart to go in for some sort of decent perfection?"

"Ah decency, ah perfection--!" the young man sincerely sighed. "I talked
of them the other Sunday with Miss Fancourt."

It produced on the Master's part a laugh of odd acrimony. "Yes, they'll
'talk' of them as much as you like! But they'll do little to help one to
them. There's no obligation of course; only you strike me as capable,"
he went on. "You must have thought it all over. I can't believe you're
without a plan. That's the sensation you give me, and it's so rare that
it really stirs one up--it makes you remarkable. If you haven't a plan,
if you _don't_ mean to keep it up, surely you're within your rights; it's
nobody's business, no one can force you, and not more than two or three
people will notice you don't go straight. The others--_all_ the rest,
every blest soul in England, will think you do--will think you are
keeping it up: upon my honour they will! I shall be one of the two or
three who know better. Now the question is whether you can do it for two
or three. Is that the stuff you're made of?"

It locked his guest a minute as in closed throbbing arms. "I could do it
for one, if you were the one."