'Yes,' said Pitt; 'that is the prettiest part of the house. It is said to be by Inigo Jones; but perhaps that cannot be proved.' 'Does it matter?' said Betty, laughing. 'Not to any real lover of it; but to the rest, you know, the name is the thing.' '"Lover of it"!' said Betty. 'Can you love a staircase?' Pitt laughed out; then he answered seriously. 'Don't you know that all that is good and true is in a way bound up together? it is one whole; and I take it to be certain that in proportion to anyone's love for spiritual and moral beauty will be, _coeteris paribus_, his appreciation of all expression of it, in nature or art.' '_But_', said Betty, '"spiritual and moral beauty"! You do not mean that this oak staircase is an expression of either?' 'Of both, perhaps. At any rate, the things are very closely connected.' 'You are an enigma!' said Betty. 'I hope not always to remain so,' he answered. Betty went up the beautiful staircase, noting as she went its beauties, from storey to storey. She had not noticed it before, although it really took up more room than was proportionate to the size of the house. What did Pitt mean by those last words? she was querying. And could it be possible that the owner of a house like this, with a property corresponding, would not be of the world and live in the world like other men? He must, Betty thought. It is all very well for people who have not the means to make a figure in society, to talk of isolating themselves from society. A man may give up a little; but when he has much, he holds on to it. But how was it with Pitt? She must try and find out. She accordingly made an attempt that same evening, beginning with the staircase again. 'I admired Inigo Jones all the way up-stairs,' she said, when she had an opportunity to talk to Pitt alone. Mr. Dallas had gone to sleep after dinner, and his wife was knitting at a sufficient distance. 'The quaint fancies and delicate work are really such as I never imagined before in wood-carving. But your words about it remain a puzzle to me.' 'My words? About art being an expression of truth? Surely that is not new?' 'It may be very old; but I do not understand it.' 'You understand, that so far as art is genuine, it is a setter forth of truth?' 'Well, I suppose so; of some truth. Roses must be roses, and trees must be trees; and of course must look as like the reality as possible.' 'That is the very lowest thing art can do, and in some cases is not true art at all. Her business is to tell truth--never to deceive.' 'What sort of truth then?' 'What I said; spiritual and moral.' 'Ah, there it is! Now you have got back to it. Now you are talking mystery, or--forgive me--transcendentalism.'