What he meant was of course, “It’s a perfectly exquisite spot.” What is becoming of our old eloquence and enthusiasm? The full-blooded conventions are dying, and we have already replaced them by a code of shadows. But whether the life beneath the code is as vivid as ever, remains to be seen. I think myself that manners are changing, but not man. In all probability we shall live to greet the day when “fairly decent” will express the most ecstatic degree of rapture. The gardener was not intentionally modern. It is the tendency of his generation to be modern—it is difficult to believe that it has been the tendency of every generation from the prehistoric downwards. And it was the gardener’s ambition to walk in the opposite direction to the tendency of his generation. He shared the common delusion that by walking apart he could be unique. This arises from the divine fallacy that man makes man, that he has the making of himself in his own hands. I am glad that I share this pathetic illusion with my gardener. So, as he thought the Red Place very beautiful, he said, “I think it is very beautiful.” But even so he was not sincere throughout. He posed even in his honesty. For he posed purposely as an honest man. Of course you know that one of the most effective poses is to pose as one who never poses. A rough diamond with a heart of gold. The first moment Mr. Samuel Rust heard the gardener say Tra-la-la he ceased to have a doubt as to the species of citadel he had invaded. “You are one of these insouciant wanderers, what?” he suggested. “A light-hearted genius going to make a fortune grow out of the twopence in your pocket. You got yourself out of a book. I think your sort make your hearts light by blowing them up with gas.” True to his code, he then feared that he had spoken with insufficient mediocrity, and blushed. A small circular patch of red, like a rose, appeared high up on either cheek, suddenly bringing the rest of his face into competition with his vivid lips. “You are wrong about the twopence,” said the gardener, “I have three halfpence.” “Come and see my Red Place,” said Mr. Rust. “That is, if you’re not bored.” Boredom and the gardener were strangers. One can never be bored if one is always busy creating oneself with all the range of humanity as model. “This is an hotel,” said the owner, as they approached the door. “It is my hotel, and it promised to make my fortune. So far it has confined itself to costing a fortune. When I remind it of its promise it puts its tongue in its cheek—what?”