“I don’t think any of us knows very much about love,” he mumbled. And then he went on rather lamely: “I think there are a great many different kinds of love, just as there are a great many different kinds of malice.” He stopped again, his mind struggling with the difficulty of expression. “I don’t think,” he blurted out, “that most of the kinds of love we run across sink down to the bottom of the universe!”

Having said this, he uttered a short, uncomfortable schoolboy-chuckle. “Well, well,” he added gently, “I’m not so certain about any of this as to be rude to anyone over it! Well, goodbye, Valley,” and he held out his hand. “By the by, my mother will expect a call from you soon. You will come, won’t you? Drop in at teatime. I’m generally in then; only don’t let it be tomorrow, because we’re going to the Show. Shall we see you there?” And he shook the priest’s hand with affectionate cordiality, searching his mind with his eyes.⁠ ⁠…