As he set himself to answer the question, why it was he didn’t “want Him,” there came into his mind one of Gerda’s recent hints, full of her primitive Blacksod mania for gross scandal, implying that the perverse tendencies of Mr. Malakite had not even yet been eradicated by old age.

“If I take her tomorrow night,” he thought, “there’ll exist⁠ ⁠… something⁠ ⁠… in common⁠ ⁠… between the old man and me⁠ ⁠… yes! if it’s only a⁠ ⁠… only a⁠ ⁠… Is that the reason why I don’t really want ‘Him’ to exist? For fear my feeling for Christie should have to be a thing purer even than ‘Platonic’?”