"What was it about?"
"Let me see." And St. George appeared to make an effort to remember. "Oh, yes, it was about myself." Paul Overt gave an irrepressible groan for the disappearance of such a production, and the elder man went on: "Oh, but you should write it—you should do me. There's a subject, my boy: no end of stuff in it!"
Again Paul was silent, but after a little he spoke. "Are there no women that really understand—that can take part in a sacrifice?"
"How can they take part? They themselves are the sacrifice. They're the idol and the altar and the flame."
"Isn't there even one who sees further?" Paul continued.
For a moment St. George made no answer to this; then, having torn up his letters, he stood before his disciple again, ironic. "Of course I know the one you mean. But not even Miss Fancourt."
"I thought you admired her so much."
"It's impossible to admire her more. Are you in love with her?" St. George asked.
"Yes," said Paul Overt.
"Well, then, give it up."
Paul stared. "Give up my love?"
"Bless me, no; your idea."
"My idea?"
"The one you talked with her about. The idea of perfection."
"She would help it—she would help it!" cried the young man.
"For about a year—the first year, yes. After that she would be as a millstone round its neck."
"Why, she has a passion for completeness, for good work—for everything you and I care for most."
