“It is impossible--quite impossible, child,” said the young man. “Enjoyment with a refined organisation such as yours can never be anything that is not reflective--it is something that cannot be shared with a number of persons. It is quite impossible that you could have any feeling in common with such a mind as this Mr. Harwood's or with the other people who went ashore. I heard nothing but expressions of enjoyment, and I felt really sad to think that there was not a refined soul among them all. They enjoyed themselves, therefore you did not.” “I think I can understand you,” said Mrs. Crawford at once, for she feared that Daireen might attempt to question the point he insisted on. Of course when the superior intellect of Mr. Glaston demonstrated that they could not have enjoyed themselves, it was evident that it was their own sensations which were deceiving them. Mrs. Crawford trusted to the decision of the young man's intellect more implicitly than she did her own senses: just as Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burton Heath, came to believe the practical jesters. “Should you enjoy the society and scenery of a desert island better than an inhabited one?” asked the girl, somewhat rebellious at the concessions of Mrs. Crawford. “Undoubtedly, if everything was in good taste,” he answered quietly. “That is, if everything was in accordance with your own taste,” came the voice of Mr. Harwood, who, unseen, had rejoined the party. Mr. Glaston made no reply. He had previously become aware of the unsatisfactory results of making any answers to such men as wrote for newspapers. As he had always considered such men outside the world of art in which he lived and to the inhabitants of which he addressed himself, it was hardly to be expected that he would put himself on a level of argument with them. In fact, Mr. Glaston rarely consented to hold an argument with any one. If people maintained opinions different from his own, it was so much the worse for those people--that was all he felt. It was to a certain circle of young women in good society that he preferred addressing himself, for he knew that to each individual in that circle he appeared as the prophet and high priest of art. His tone-poems in the college magazine, his impromptus--musical _aquarellen_ he called them--performed in secret and out of hearing of any earthly audience, his colour-harmonies, his statuesque idealisms--all these were his priestly ministrations; while the interpretation, not of his own works--this he never attempted--but of the works of three poets belonging to what he called his school, of one painter, and of one musical composer, was his prophetical service.