His pleasant voice had the clear, leisured enunciation of the scholar, a quality peculiarly exasperating to the red-hot enthusiast whose thoughts are, in the main, emotions intellectually expressed. ‘Justice and right indeed!’ Miss O’Neill fairly hurled the words at him. ‘That’s all we’re asking, isn’t it? And precisely what we’ll never be getting under a man-made Government and man-made laws.’ Macnair smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He had no mind to let argument and recrimination desecrate the peace and glowing beauty of a Highland summer evening; and with practised ease he slid into the calmer waters of generalisation, as much in the hope of weaning Lady Forsyth from troubled thoughts as for the pleasure of expressing his own. ‘The truth is,’ he said, resting on his oars, while the boats drifted into a luminous bay, ‘every age, like every country, has its moral microbe; and the microbe of this one is “Down with everything”; “Can’t; won’t; shan’t; don’t; Pass it along the line,” that’s about the tune of it, in all ranks. Kipling may or may not be a classic poet, but his “Commissariat Camels” put the present-day spirit into a nutshell. For nearly a hundred years the world has been fed on a steady diet of revolt; and now we have the climax, distaste for duties and clamour for rights. The fine, brave old wisdom of acceptance is altogether out of court⸺’ Mark, withdrawing his gaze from Miss Alison’s profile, treated him to a smile of amused approval. ‘Why this sudden access of eloquence, old man?’ he asked; and Keith deliberately winked over his shoulder. ‘Miss O’Neill there’s to blame; and the modern world does seem rather egregiously modern when one’s been living for months in a backwater with Pindar for company.’ ‘Oh Keith, have you really found time for your promised translation of the “Odes”?’ Lady Forsyth—herself a translator of some distinction—leaned eagerly forward. ‘I’ve been making time for a few of them,’ he answered, pleased with the success of his diversion, ‘by neglecting my Bergson book.’ ‘Have you got them here?’ ‘Yes. They’re in type, awaiting your consideration!’ ‘Good. You’ll publish them, of course.’ He shook his head. ‘Not even to please you! I’ve simply been enjoying myself, exploring a little deeper into the heart of an old friend; one who could look life in the face without feeling convinced that he personally could have made a better job of it. One suspects even our poets, these days, of being propagandists in disguise. Pindar is as sublime and as useless as a snow-peak; and one can no more convey the essence of him in English than one could convey the scent of a rose in Parliamentary language! Yet one is fool enough to try.’ Sheila, who had been listening with her quiet intentness, remarked softly, ‘_Why_ don’t we all learn Greek?’ ‘Because the humanities are out of court in an age of scientific materialism. Wasn’t there a promise, once, that I should teach _you_?’