"Don't say that; I don't deserve it; it scorches me," he protested with
eyes suddenly grave and glowing. "The 'one' is of course one's self,
one's conscience, one's idea, the singleness of one's aim. I think of
that pure spirit as a man thinks of a woman he has in some detested hour
of his youth loved and forsaken. She haunts him with reproachful eyes,
she lives for ever before him. As an artist, you know, I've married for
money." Paul stared and even blushed a little, confounded by this
avowal; whereupon his host, observing the expression of his face, dropped
a quick laugh and pursued: "You don't follow my figure. I'm not speaking
of my dear wife, who had a small fortune--which, however, was not my
bribe. I fell in love with her, as many other people have done. I refer
to the mercenary muse whom I led to the altar of literature. Don't, my
boy, put your nose into _that_ yoke. The awful jade will lead you a
life!"

Our hero watched him, wondering and deeply touched. "Haven't you been
happy!"

"Happy? It's a kind of hell."

"There are things I should like to ask you," Paul said after a pause.

"Ask me anything in all the world. I'd turn myself inside out to save
you."

"To 'save' me?" he quavered.

"To make you stick to it--to make you see it through. As I said to you
the other night at Summersoft, let my example be vivid to you."