But it was not to be yet. That was the burden of their subdued murmurings. It couldn't be done on Arthur's present income, and he was still less certain than ever that it could be regarded as cumulative or even permanent. Rose understood. To her country-bred mind it was marvellous that Arthur should succeed in adding up so many figures during the course of a day, even though the result did not always meet with the approval of the bank authorities. They would have to wait. "It's such a responsibility," said Arthur, presently. "If we were to get married, I mean. I might come home with the sack any day." "I shouldn't mind," protested Rose, "but I couldn't bear you to feel like that about it. We shall have to wait." "I wonder why I'm not clever," Arthur remarked, after a long pause. Rose clutched him indignantly towards her. "Oh, you are. The things you say. The things you think! I never knew." And although he shook his head vigorously, Arthur inwardly contemplated that region in his mind wherein existed all the matters that comprised a knowledge quite irrelevant to the practical affairs of life but very useful for the purpose of living. "I _do_ have ideas," he admitted, thoughtfully. "I suppose I'm really what you might call an intellectual sort of chap." "Dreadfully," said Rose, without a trace of disrespect. "The books you read!" "Of course, I'm only a sort of amateur," Arthur continued, modestly. "But I do like books, and I can generally get at what a chap's driving at--in a way." He stared hard at a grasshopper, who seemed to be considering the possibility of an enormous leap, for his great hind legs were taut and his long feelers caressed the air. "Sometimes I think the chaps who write books must be a bit like me--in a way. They seem to like the same things as I do. There's a lot about beauty in most books, and I like beauty, don't you?" "Yes," breathed Rose, wondering what exactly he meant. The grasshopper hopped and landed with a quite distinct thud, almost at their feet. They both looked at it without thinking about it at all. But its advent produced a pause. "In the books I've read," Arthur resumed, "there's generally a chap whom you might regard as being not much good at anything and yet pretty decent." "Heroes," suggested Rose, whose knowledge of literature was not very wide. "Sometimes. Chaps people don't understand. That's because they like beauty more than anything else, and not many people really care about beauty. They only think of it when they see a sunset or look at pictures. If you can forget beauty, then you're alright. Nobody thinks you're strange. You don't have any difficulties."