"Certainly. But you may at least reflect that you have lost us a deal of
time."
"And now you slay us," said Cliffe. "Ah, well--'
dulce et decorum est,'
etcetera."
"Don't imagine that you'll get many of the honors of martyrdom," laughed
Ashe--in Cliffe's eyes an offensive and triumphant figure, as he leaned
carelessly upon a marble pedestal that carried a bust of Horace Walpole.
"Why?" Cliffe's hand had gone instinctively to his mustache. Mary had
dropped his arm, and now stood quietly beside him, pale and somewhat
jaded, her fine eyes travelling between the speakers.
"Why? Because the heresies have no martyrs. The halo is for the true
Church!"
"H'm!" said Cliffe, with a reflective sneer. "I suppose you mean for the
successful?"
"Do I?" said Ashe, with nonchalance. "Aren't the true Church the people
who are justified by the event?"
"The orthodox like to think so," said Cliffe. "But the heretics have a
way of coming out top."
"Does that mean you chaps are going to win at the next election? I
devoutly hope you may--
we're all as stale as ditch-water--and as for
places, anybody's welcome to mine!" And so saying, Ashe lounged away,
attracted by the bow and smile of a pretty Frenchwoman, with whom it was
always agreeable to chat.
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