THE BIRTHPLACE
looking at him harder. Detached as he was he was interested—he was at least amused. "Then you don't claim, or at any rate you don't insist———? I mean you personally."
He had an identity for him, Gedge felt, that he couldn't have had for a Briton, and the impulse was quick in our friend to testify to this perception. "I don't insist to you."
The young man laughed. "It really—I assure you if I may—wouldn't do any good. I'm too awfully interested."
"Do you mean," his wife lightly inquired, "in—a—pulling it down? That is in what you've said to me."
"Has he said to you," Gedge intervened, though quaking a little, "that he would like to pull it down?"
She met, in her free sweetness, this directness with such a charm! "Oh, perhaps not quite the house———!"
"Good. You see we live on it—I mean we people."
The husband had laughed, but had now so completely ceased to look about him that there seemed nothing left for him but to talk avowedly with the caretaker. "I'm interested," he explained, "in what, I think, is the interesting thing—or at all events the eternally tormenting one. The fact of the abysmally little that, in proportion, we know."
"In proportion to what?" his companion asked.
"Well, to what there must have been—to what in fact there is—to wonder about. That's the interest; it's immense. He escapes us like a thief at night, carrying off—well, carrying off everything. And people pretend to catch Him like a flown canary, over whom you can close your hand and put Him back. He won't go back; he won't come back. He's not"—the young man laughed—"such a fool! It makes Him the happiest of all great men."
He had begun by speaking to his wife, but had ended, with his friendly, his easy, his indescribable competence,
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