His was a soul that easily triumphed, that was almost coldly perfect without effort, that had surely never longed even for a moment to fall, had never desired and refused the shadowy pleasures of passion.

The wonderful purity of his friend's face continually struck Julian anew.

It suggested to him the ivory peak of an Alp, the luminous pallor of a pearl.

What other young man in London looked like that?
Valentine was indeed an unique figure in the modern London world.

Had he strayed into it from the fragrant pages of a missal, or condescended to it from the beatific vistas of some far-off Paradise?
Julian had often wondered, as he looked into the clear, calm eyes of the friend who had been for so long the vigilant, yet unconscious guardian of his soul.
To-night, as Valentine sat looking at the Christ, a curious wonder at himself came into his mind.