“I am not, I believe, a misanthropist, as you understand the word. But I had rather live alone than mix with men in general.” “To me it would be dreadful,” said Isabel, after a moment’s thought. “I cannot bear solitude.” “The society of refined and cultured people is the habit of your life.” “Refined--in a sense. Cultured?--I am not so sure of that. You would not call them cultured, the people I live amongst. I am not a clever woman, Mr. Kingcote. My set is not literary nor artistic, nor anything of that kind. I am disposed to think we should come into the category of ‘mean and hateful people’--though of course you wouldn’t like to tell me so.” “I was thinking of quite other phases of life. My own experience has not been, on the whole, among people who belong to what is called society. I have lived--in a haphazard way--with the classes that have no social standing, so, you see, I have no right to comment upon your circles.” Isabel glanced at him, and turned her eyes away. A fan was lying on the table close by her; she reached it, and played with the folds. “But at all events,” she resumed, as if to slightly change the tone, “you have had the Vissians. Don’t you find them delightful? I do so like Mr. Vissian, with his queer bookhunting, and Mrs. Vissian is charm itself. These are congenial associates, no doubt?” “Very; I like them extremely. Has Mr. Vissian told you how my acquaintance with him began?” “Nothing, except that you met somehow in connection with the cottage.” “The good rector is wonderfully discreet,” said Kingcote, with a smile. And he related the story of the Midsummer Day on which he walked from Salcot to Winstoke. “It really was an act of unexampled generosity on Mr. Vissians part, to trust a stranger, with so dubious a story. But the first edition of ‘Venice Preserved’ no doubt seemed to him a guarantee of respectability. I had the book bound during the few days that I spent in London, and made him a present of it when I returned.” “You have friends in London?” Isabel asked. “Relations?” “A sister--married. My parents are not living.” “But of friends, companions?” “One, an artist. Did you visit the Academy this year? There was a picture of his--his name is Gabriel--a London street scene; perhaps you didn’t notice it. You would scarcely have liked it. The hanging committee must have accepted it in a moment of strangely lucid liberality. By which, Mrs. Clarendon, I don’t mean to reflect upon your taste. I don’t like the picture myself, but it has great technical merits.” “Is he young, like yourself?” “Like myself?” Kingcote repeated, as if struck by the expression. “Certainly. Are you not young?” “I suppose so,” said the other, smiling rather grimly. “At all events, I am not thirty in years. But it sounded curious to hear the word applied to myself.”