Speculation of the House-Agent
"How jolly it is," he cried, "to get back to civilization. That notion that civilization isn't poetical is a civilized delusion. Wait till you've really lost yourself in nature, among the devilish woodlands and the cruel flowers. Then you'll know that there's no star like the red star of man that he lights on his hearth-stone; no river like the red river of man, the good red wine, which you, Mr. Rupert Grant, if I have any knowledge of you, will be drinking in two or three minutes in enormous quantities."
Rupert and I exchanged glances of fear. Basil went on heartily as the wind died in the dreary trees.
"You'll find our host a much more simple kind of fellow in his own house. I did when I visited him when he lived in the cabin at Yarmouth, and again in the loft at the city warehouse. He's really a very good fellow. But his greatest virtue remains what I said originally."
"What do you mean?" I asked, finding his speech straying towards a sort of sanity. "What is his greatest virtue?"
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