"
Lilian laughed.
"Well, I was saying it is a political age, and I think a man ought
to go in for the first interest of his time. What have we to do just
now with artistic aims? The English, at any time, care little or
nothing for art; one has to recognize that. Our task in the world is
practical--to secure all men a sufficiency of beef and beer, and
honest freedom. I like to feel that I am on the advancing wave; I
don't care for your picturesque ponds; they generally have a bad
smell."
The effect of his vigorous talk was manifest in Lilian's face. She
yielded her spirit to his, was borne whither he would.
"You talk of living in Paris--why, if you really knew Paris, you
would hate the place. Underneath all this show of civilization,
refinement, brilliancy--I'm glad to say you can't even guess what
it covers. The town reeks with abominations. I'm getting sick of
it."
The sincerity of his moral disgust was obvious. No one knew so well
as Lilian the essential purity--even the puritanism--of
Quarrier's temper.
"For all that," he added, merrily, "we'll go and dine at the
restaurant, and then look in at the Francais. They know how to
cook here, and they know how to play the fool--no denying it."
When Lilian went forth with him she had once more succeeded in
overcoming her despondent mood. The lights of the Boulevard
exercised their wonted effect--cheering, inspiring.
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