lf, and that a sense of beauty is not, alas, by any stretch
of kindliest allowance, a national characteristic. Culture and knowledge
we may fairly claim, no doubt, but the imaginative sense of beauty is o
rare among us that its possession is a peculiarity good form would
suppress. It is a pose, an affectation, it is unmanly--it is not
English. We are too strong to thrill. And that one so near and dear to
me, so honoured and so deeply loved, should prove herself to my new
standard thus typically English, while it came as sharpest pain, ought
not, I suppose, to have caused me the surprise it did. It made me aware,
however, of the importance of my new criterion, while at the same time
aware of a lack of sympathy between us that amounted to disenchantment.
It was a shock, to put it plainly. A breath of solitude, of isolation,
stole on me and, close behind it, melancholy.

From the smallest clue imaginable the truth came into me, from a clue so
small, indeed, that you may smile to think I dared draw such big
deductions from premises so insignificant. You will probably deny me a
sense of humour even when you hear. So let me say at once, before you
judge me hastily, that the words, and the incident which drew them
forth, were admittedly inadequate to the deduction. Only, mark this,
please--I drew no deduction. Reason played no part. Cause and effect
were unrelated. It was simply that the truth flashed into me. I knew.

What did I know? Perhaps that the gulf between us lay as wide as that
between the earth and Sirius; perhaps that we were, individually, of a
kind so separate, so different, that mutual understanding was
impossible; perhaps that while she was of To-day and proud of it, I was
of another time, another century, and proud of that. I cannot say
precisely. Her words, while they increased my sense of isolation, of
solitude, of melancholy, at the same time also made me laugh, as
assuredly they will now make you laugh.

For, while she was behind me in the morning-room, fingering some letters
on the table, I stood six feet away beside the open window, listening to
the nightingales--the English nightingales--that sang across the quiet
garden in the dusk. The high-pitched clamour of the jungle choruses with
their monstrous turmoil, their prolific detail, came back to me in
startling contrast. This exquisite and delicious sound I now heard
belonged still to England. And it had not changed. "No hungry
generations tread thee