And
after supper, with the self-conscious air of a man who has waited for this
moment, be produced from his coat pocket a crumpled newspaper with the
title _Unshackled_ printed in aggressive letters on its pale-green cover.
"In my leisure time I write a good deal on a subject very dear to me, Miss
Forsyth," he said and screwed up his sharp nose in a kind of nervous
anguish. "I have here an article published last week--you are a
broad-minded, intelligent woman--I thought perhaps it might interest
you--if you would care to glance over it."
Christine lay back in her chair, her face in shadow. But the lamplight
fell on her two hands. Red and misshapen as they were now, they were
still noble hands, and their repose had dignity and beauty.
"Won't you read it to us, Mr. Ricardo? My eyes are tired at night."
He cleared his throat.
"It is an answer to Bishop Crawford's recent letter to _The Times_, which
you may have seen. I have called it 'Unmasking the Oracle.'"
Robert leant out of the window and watched the sun sink into mist and
smoke. He wished Mr. Ricardo hadn't come; and that he would go away soon.
In a few minutes the light would begin to die, and the sharp black lines
of the roofs and spires, which on the ruins of their dull selves seemed to
be built anew into a witchlike fantastic city, would be lost to him for
another night. Robert did not want to hear about God and the origin of
man now. He kicked impatiently.
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