Heard would have put himself
out just then in that particular way; and Denis, up to a few days ago,
was certainly not one of them. The bishop had never been drawn towards
this rather precious youth. He was not Mr. Heard's type of boy. There
was a lack of grit and stamina about him--something soft, both in manner
and appearance; something dreamy, ambiguous, almost epicene. Mr. Heard
had not quite lost his old British instinct as to the fundamental
uselessness of all art. A young fellow who, instead of taking up some
rational profession, talked about Cimabue and Jacopo Bellini . . .
there was something not quite right with him. Jacopo Bellini! But even
while thinking what to reply, he was conscious of having undergone a
slight change of feeling lately. He was growing more tolerant and
benign, even in trifles like this. Jacopo Bellini: why not? Meanwhile,
he bethought himself of a way of escape.
"Suppose you go alone? Or why not try the midnight expedition first? I
might manage midnight."
"I've tried it.
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