could not
grasp the meaning with her mind.

"It goes round, round, round, like a roll of oil-cloth," she hazarded.
Evidently she meant Hewet alone to hear her words, but Hirst demanded,
"What d'you mean?"

She was instantly ashamed of her figure of speech, for she could not
explain it in words of sober criticism.

"Surely it's the most perfect style, so far as style goes, that's ever
been invented," he continued. "Every sentence is practically perfect,
and the wit--"

"Ugly in body, repulsive in mind," she thought, instead of thinking
about Gibbon's style. "Yes, but strong, searching, unyielding in
mind." She looked at his big head, a disproportionate part of which was
occupied by the forehead, and at the direct, severe eyes.

"I give you up in despair," he said. He meant it lightly, but she took
it seriously, and believed that her value as a human being was lessened
because she did not happen to admire the style of Gibbon. The others
were talking now in a group about the native villages which Mrs.
Flushing ought to visit.

"I despair too," she said impetuously. "How are you going to judge
people merely by their minds?"

"You agree with my spinster Aunt, I expect," said St. John in his jaunty
manner, which was always irritating because it made the person he
talked to appear unduly clumsy and in earnest. "'Be good, sweet maid'--I
thought Mr. Kingsley and my Aunt were now obsolete."

"One can be very nice without having read a book," she asserted. Very
silly and simple her words sounded, and laid her open to derision.

"Did I ever deny it?" Hirst enquired, raising his eyebrows.

Most unexpectedly Mrs. Thornbury here intervened, either because it
was her mission to keep things smooth or because she had long wished to
speak to Mr. Hirst, feeling as she did that young men were her sons.

"I have lived all my life with people like your Aunt, Mr. Hirst," she
said, leaning forward in her chair. Her brown squirrel-like eyes became
even brighter than usual. "They have never heard of Gibbon. They only
care for their pheasants and their peasants. They are great big men who
look so fine on horseback, as people must have done, I think, in the
days of the great wars. Say what you like against them--they are animal,
they are unintellectual; they don't read themselves, and they don't want
others to read, but they are some of the finest and the kindest human
beings on the face of the earth! You would be surprised at some of