I felt for Miss Beaumont. A home-made gable is an awful thing, and Harcourt's mansion looked like a cottage with the dropsy. But what would she say? She said nothing. "Well?" It was as if he had never spoken. She was as merry, as smiling, as pretty as ever, and she said nothing. She had not realized that a question requires an answer. For us the situation was intolerable. I had to save it by making a tactful reference to the view, which, I said, reminded me a little of the country near Veii. It did not--indeed it could not, for I have never been near Veii. But it is part of my system to make classical allusions. And at all events I saved the situation. Miss Beaumont was serious and rational at once. She asked me the date of Veii. I made a suitable answer. "I do like the classics," she informed us. "They are so natural. Just writing down things." "Ye--es," said I. "But the classics have their poetry as well as their prose. They're more than a record of facts." "Just writing down things," said Miss Beaumont, and smiled as if the silly definition pleased her. Harcourt had recovered himself. "A very just criticism," said he. "It is what I always feel about the ancient world. It takes us but a very little way. It only writes things down." "What do you mean?" asked Evelyn. "I mean this--though it is presumptuous to speak in the presence of Mr. Inskip. This is what I mean. The classics are not everything. We owe them an enormous debt; I am the last to undervalue it; I, too, went through them at school. They are full of elegance and beauty. But they are not everything. They were written before men began to really feel." He coloured crimson. "Hence, the chilliness of classical art--its lack of--of a something. Whereas later things--Dante--a Madonna of Raphael--some bars of Mendelssohn----" His voice tailed reverently away. We sat with our eyes on the ground, not liking to look at Miss Beaumont. It is a fairly open secret that she also lacks a something. She has not yet developed her soul. The silence was broken by the still small voice of Mrs. Worters saying that she was faint with hunger. The young hostess sprang up. She would let none of us help her: it was her party. She undid the basket and emptied out the biscuits and oranges from their bags, and boiled the kettle and poured out the tea, which was horrible. But we laughed and talked with the frivolity that suits the open air, and even Mrs. Worters expectorated her flies with a smile. Over us all there stood the silent, chivalrous figure of Ford, drinking tea carefully lest it should disturb his outline. His guardian, who is a wag, chaffed him and tickled his ankles and calves. "Well, this is nice!" said Miss Beaumont. "I am happy." "Your wood, Evelyn!" said the ladies.