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would notice the metamorphosis. Yet my host declares that I see
with the eyes of a Southron; that the Scotch peasant when he is
not drunk is intellectual, and that there is no occasion on which
he is not ready for theological disputation.
But I dinna mind telling you, he added, that I'd as lief talk
with my rowan tree. It does nae blaze into a conflagration at a
comfortable wee bit of false doctrine.
I should love to stay all the summer with my old friend, It seems
that only from such a remote solitude can one view things mundane
in the right perspective, and in their true proportion. One
would see how important or unimportant portant in the cosmos was
the agricultural ant's dream of three millimetres and an aphis
compared with the aspirations of the English labourer. One would
justly focus the South African millionaire, Sandy McGrath and the
ram, and bring them to their real lowest common denominator. One
would even be able to gauge the value of a History of Renaissance
Morals. The benefits I should derive from a long sojourn are
incalculable, but my new responsibilities call me back to London
and its refracting and distorting atmosphere. If I had dwelt
here for fifty years I should have perceived that Carlotta was
but a speck in the whirlwind of human dust whose ultimate destiny
was immaterial. As my five days' visit, however, has not
advanced me to that pitch of wisdom, I am foolishly concerned in
my mind as to her welfare, and anxious to dissolve the
triumvirate, Miss Griggs, Stenson, and Antoinette, whom I have
entrusted with the reins of government.
A month ago, in similar circumstances, I should have railed at
Fate and anathematised Carlotta from the tip of her pink toes to
the gold and bronze glory of her hair. But I am growing more
kindly disposed towards Carlotta, and taking a keen interest in
her spiritual development.
An inner voice, an ironical, sardonic inner voice with which
there is no arguing, tells me that I am a hypocrite; that an
interest in Carlotta's spiritual development is a nice,
comforting, highsounding phrase which has deluded philosophic
guardians of female youth for many generations.
What does it matter to you whether she has a soul or not, says
the voice, provided she can babble pleasantly at dinner and play
cribbage with you afterwards?
Well, what on earth does it matter?
July 21st.
She was at Euston to meet me. As soon as she saw my face at the
carriage window she left Stenson and flew up the platform like a
pretty tame animal, and when I alighted hung on my arms and

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