Agravaine was conscious of a dull, heavy weight pressing on his heart. He had known his love was hopeless, but even hopelessness is the better for being indefinite. He understood now.
'And you naturally want to get rid of me before it can happen,' he said. 'I don't wonder. I'm not vain.... Well, I'll go. I knew I had no chance. Good-bye.'
He turned. She stopped him with a sharp cry.
'What do you mean? You cannot wish to stay now? I am saving you.'
'Saving me! I have loved you since the moment you entered the Hall at Camelot,' said Agravaine.
She drew in her breath.
'You-you love me!'
They looked at each other in the starlight. She held out her hands.
'Agravaine!'
She drooped towards him, and he gathered her into his arms. For a novice, he did it uncommonly well.
It was about six months later that Agravaine, having ridden into the forest, called upon a Wise Man at his cell.
In those days almost anyone who was not a perfect bone-head could set up as a Wise Man and get away with it. All you had to do was to live in a forest and grow a white beard. This particular Wise Man, for a wonder, had a certain amount of rude sagacity. He listened carefully to what the knight had to say.
'It has puzzled me to such an extent,' said Agravaine, 'that I felt that I must consult a specialist. You see me. Take a good look at me. What do you think of my personal appearance? You needn't hesitate. It's worse than that. I am the ugliest man in England.'
'Would you go so far as that?' said the Wise Man, politely.
'Farther. And everybody else thinks so. Everybody except my wife. She tells me that I am a model of manly beauty. You know Lancelot? Well, she says I have Lancelot whipped to a custard. What do you make of that? And here's another thing. It is perfectly obvious to me that my wife is one of the most beautiful creatures in existence. I have seem them all, and I tell you that she stands alone. She is literally marooned in Class A, all by herself. Yet she insists that she is plain. What do you make of it?'
The Wise Man stroked his beard.
'My son,' he said, 'the matter is simple. True love takes no account of looks.'
'No?' said Agravaine.
'You two are affinities. Therefore, to you the outward aspect is nothing. Put it like this. Love is a thingummybob who what-d' you-call-its.'
'I'm beginning to see,' said Agravaine.
'What I meant was this. Love is a wizard greater than Merlin. He plays odd tricks with the eyesight.'
'Yes,' said Agravaine.
'Or, put it another way. Love is a sculptor greater than Praxiteles. He takes an unsightly piece of clay and moulds it into a thing divine.'
'I get you,' said Agravaine.
The Wise Man began to warm to his work.
'Or shall we say-?'
'I think I must be going,' said Agravaine. 'I promised my wife I would be back early.'
'We might put it-' began the Wise Man perseveringly.
'I understand,' said Agravaine, hurriedly. 'I quite see now. Good-bye.'
The Wise Man sighed resignedly.
'Good-bye, Sir Knight,' he said. 'Good-bye. Pay at ye desk.'
And Agravaine rode on his way marvelling.
The Goal-keeper and Plutocrat
The main difficulty in writing a story is to convey to the reader clearly yet tersely the natures and dispositions of one's leading characters. Brevity, brevity-that is the cry. Perhaps, after all, the play- bill style is the best. In this drama of love, football (Association code), and politics, then, the principals are as follows, in their order of entry:-
Isabel Rackstraw (an angel).
The Hon. Clarence Tresillian (a Greek god).
Lady Runnymede (a proud old aristocrat).
Mr. Rackstraw (a multi-millionaire City man and Radical politician).
More about Clarence later. For the moment let him go as a Greek god. There were other sides, too, to Mr. Rackstraw's character, but for the moment let him go as a multi-millionaire City man and Radical politician. Not that it is satisfactory; it is too mild. The Radical politics of other Radical politicians were as skim-milk to the Radical politics of Radical Politician Rackstraw. Where Mr. Lloyd George referred to the House of Lords as blithering backwoodsmen and asinine anachronisms, Mr. Rackstraw scorned to be so guarded in his speech. He did not mince his words. His attitude towards a member of the peerage was that of the terrier to the perambulating cat.
