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ing gesture which so impressed the youth.
‘Now are you satisfied?’ he asked.
Philip, somewhat bewildered, confessed that he was.
‘I’m disappointed that you didn’t add a little Buddhism,’
said Weeks. ‘And I confess I have a sort of sympathy for Ma-
homet; I regret that you should have left him out in the cold.’
Hayward laughed, for he was in a good humour with him-
self that evening, and the ring of his sentences still sounded
pleasant in his ears. He emptied his glass.
‘I didn’t expect you to understand me,’ he answered. ‘With
your cold American intelligence you can only adopt the criti-
cal attitude. Emerson and all that sort of thing. But what is
criticism? Criticism is purely destructive; anyone can destroy,
but not everyone can build up. You are a pedant, my dear fel-
low. The important thing is to construct: I am constructive;
I am a poet.’
Weeks looked at him with eyes which seemed at the same
time to be quite grave and yet to be smiling brightly.
‘I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a little
drunk.’
‘Nothing to speak of,’ answered Hayward cheerfully. ‘And
not enough for me to be unable to overwhelm you in argu-
ment. But come, I have unbosomed my soul; now tell us what
your religion is.’
Weeks put his head on one side so that he looked like a
sparrow on a perch.
‘I’ve been trying to find that out for years. I think I’m a
Unitarian.’
‘But that’s a dissenter,’ said Philip.

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