ria was incorrigibly flippant about the banishment of important local
subjects. She said that the kitchen-boiler was out of order, and yet she
had to take part in these highly-cultivated conversations and smile, as
she complained, with that kitchen-boiler gnawing at her vitals. She
claimed to be set on a level with the Spartan boy, if not above him.
Valeria might scoff, as those proverbially did who never felt a wound.
Hadria found a certain lack of tender feeling among the happy few who
had no such tragic burdens to sustain.

Not only were these prosaic subjects banished from within the cincture
of the gentle griffins, but also the suspicions, spites, petty
jealousies, vulgar curiosities, and all the indefinable little darts and
daggers that fly in the social air, destroying human sympathy and
good-will. Each mind could expand freely, no longer on the defensive
against the rain of small stabs. There grew up a delicate, and
chivalrous code among the little group who met within the griffins'
territory.

"It is not for us to say that, individually, we transcend the average of
educated mortals," said Professor Theobald, "but I do assert that
collectively we soar high above that depressing standard."

Professor Fortescue observed that whatever might be said about their own
little band, it was a strange fact that bodies of human beings were able
to produce, by union, a condition far above or far below the average of
their separate values. "There is something chemical and explosive in
human relationships," he said.

These meetings stood out as a unique experience in the memory of all who
took part in them. Chance had brought them to pass, and they refused to
answer to the call of a less learned magician.

Lady Engleton and Mrs. Temperley alternately sent tea and fruit to the
terrace, on the days of meeting, and there the little company would
spend the afternoon serenely, surrounded by the beauties of the garden
with its enticing avenues, its chaunting birds, its flushes of bloom,
and its rich delicious scents.

"Why do we, in the nineteenth century, starve ourselves of these
delicate joys?" cried Valeria. "Why do we so seldom leave our stupid
pre-occupations and open our souls to the sun, to the spring, to the
gentle invitations of gardens, to the charm of conversation? We seem to
know nothing of the serenities, the urbanities of life."

"We live too fast; we are too much troubled about outward things--cooks
and dress