“I think it is unkind of you not to admit me into the school itself,” he was saying. “Why am I to be debarred from the knowledge of Ur of the Chaldees? Geography has an enormous fascination for me. I can pore for hours over maps of countries which I have never seen and almost certainly shall never see, just reading the names of unheard of places with gusto.” “Ah, you feel that, too,” she said. “Martin always tells me I am a gypsy. Certainly I want to wander, to go on just for the sake of going on. The exploration, that is the point. And I think it is the playing at exploration that is so fascinating in a map. Dictionaries, too,--new words. And, best of all, new books with new ideas.” “There is one thing better,” said he; “I cap your new books with new people, new ideas.” The personal note entered, however slightly, into this, and Helen was silent a moment. “Ah, but new books implies new people,” she said. “Nothing can be more real than the people in some books.” “Quite true; and nothing can be less real than some people in real life. Do you know what I mean? One wonders with some people if there is anybody there. My impression is that there often isn’t.” “I have an aunt----“ Helen began, and stopped, feeling that it was not quite kind to lay Aunt Clara on the dissecting-table. Frank guessed this. “Ah, I have three,” he said; “perhaps mine will do.” Helen laughed, and, after a moment, he went on: “I believe that curiosity which is a convenient expression to sum up all this passion for the new,” he said, “is quite modern. I don’t think, at least, that the generation to which our aunts belong had it, with certain adorable exceptions, like Lady Sunningdale, anything like to the extent we have it. What was good enough for our grandfathers was nearly good enough for our fathers. But what was good enough for our fathers is not nearly good enough for us.” She turned a quick, luminous glance at him. He was talking about things that very much concerned her. “Ah, that is interesting,” she said, eagerly. “Give me more news of that.” “It has struck you, too?” he asked. “Your saying it reminds me that I knew it all the time.” “I know what you mean. Yes, I think it is the case. At any rate, take yourself, Martin, and me,--all, I expect, quite normal people. Well, we all want to wander, to experience everything. We are probably not really afraid of any experience that could conceivably happen to us. And we claim the right to all experience. We claim the right to our own individuality, too. It seems to us quite certainly ours; the only possession we have which is inalienable. We may lose everything else, from our character to our teeth, but not our individuality. Do you remember how Magda throws her arms wide, and cries, ‘Son Io!’--‘I am I’? That somewhat important point had never struck her father or mother. Poor things! They thought she was a sort of them. Is that bad grammar?”