“I believe it does every man good to be softened. If you ever really felt what you describe, you greatly over-estimated me. What can you lose by a little more softness? I often think that men—particularly good men—make their way through the world too much as if it were a solid mass of iron through which they must cut—as if they dared not relax their hardest edge and finest temper for a moment. Surely, that is not the way to enjoy life.” “Perhaps not. Still, it is the way to conquer in life. It may be pleasant to have a soft heart; but then someone is sure to break it.” “I do not believe much in broken hearts. Besides, I do not mean that men should be too soft. For instance, sentimental young men of about twenty are odious. But for a man to get into a fighting attitude at the barest suggestion of sentiment; to believe in nature as something inexorable, and to aim at being as inexorable as nature: is not that almost as bad?” “Do you know any such man? You must not attribute that sort of hardness to me.” “Oh no; I was not thinking of you. I was not thinking of anyone in fact. I only put a case. I sometimes have disputes with Ned on the subject. One of his cardinal principles is that there is no use in crying for spilt milk. I always argue that as irremediable disasters are the only ones that deserve or obtain sympathy, he might as well say that there is no use in crying for anything. Then he slips out of the difficulty by saying that that was just what he meant, and that there is actually no place for regret in a well-regulated scheme of life. In debating with women, men brazen out all the ridiculous conclusions of which they are convicted; and then they say that there is no use in arguing with a woman. Neither is there, because the woman is always right.” “Yes; because she suffers her heart to direct her.” “You are just as bad as the rest of your sex, I see. Where you cannot withold credit from a woman, you give it to her heart and deny it to her head.” “There! I wont play any more,” said Miss McQuinch, suddenly, at the other end of the room. “Have you finished your chess, Marian?” “We are nearly done. Ring for the lamps, please, Nelly. Let us finish, Sholto.” “Whose turn is it to move? I beg your pardon for my inattention.” “Mine—no, yours. Stop! it must be mine. I really dont know.” “Nor do I. I have forgotten my game.” “Then let us put up the board. We can finish some other night.” It had become dark by this time; and the lamps were brought in whilst Douglas was replacing the chessmen in their box. “Now,” said Marian, “let us have some music. Marmaduke: will you sing Uncle Ned for us? We have not heard you sing for ages.” “I believe it is more than three years since that abominable concert at Wandsworth; and I have not heard you sing since,” said Elinor. “I forget all my songs—havnt sung one of them for months. However, here goes! Have you a banjo in the house?” “No,” said Marian. “I will play an accompaniment for you.”