_I_, a man of universal scorn and
unbelief. . . ."
"You are putting it on," she interrupted in her seductive voice, with a
coaxing intonation.
"No. I am not like that, born or fashioned, or both. I am not for
nothing the son of my father, of that man in the painting. I am he, all
but the genius. And there is even less in me than I make out, because
the very scorn is falling away from me year after year. I have never
been so amused as by that episode in which I was suddenly called to act
such an incredible part. For a moment I enjoyed it greatly. It got him
out of his corner, you know."
"You saved a man for fun--is that what you mean? Just for fun?"
"Why this tone of suspicion?" remonstrated Heyst. "I suppose the sight
of this particular distress was disagreeable to me. What you call fun
came afterwards, when it dawned on me that I was for him a walking,
breathing, incarnate proof of the efficacy of prayer. I was a little
fascinated by it--and then, could I have argued with him? You don't
argue against such evidence, and besides it would have looked as if
I had wanted to claim all the merit. Already his gratitude was simply
frightful. Funny position, wasn't it? The boredom came later, when we
lived together on board his ship. I had, in a moment of inadvertence,
created for myself a tie. How to define it precisely I don't know.
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