“I’m sorry, Eddy. It’s a shame I have to go,” but her thoughts were not for him, as he knew. Outside the station they met Arnold, and he and Jane walked off together to see something in the Cathedral, while Eddy drove home. Jane gave a little pitiful sigh. “Poor dears,” she murmured. “H’m?” questioned Arnold, who was interested in the streets. “Poor Eileen,” Jane amplified; “poor Hugh.” “Oh, quite,” Arnold nodded. But, feeling more interested in ideas than in people, he talked about Welchester. “The stuffiness of the place!” he commented, with energy of abuse. “The stodginess. The canons and their wives. The--the enlightened culture of the Deanery. The propriety. The correctness. The intelligence. The cathedralism. The good breeding. How can Eddy bear it, Jane? Why doesn’t he kick someone or something over and run?” “Eddy likes it,” said Jane. “He’s very fond of it. After all, it is rather exquisite; look----” They had stopped at the end of Church Street, and looked along its narrow length to the square that opened out before the splendid West Front. Arnold screwed up his eyes at it, appreciatively. “_That’s_ all right. It’s the people I’m thinking of.” “But you know, Arnold, Eddy’s not exclusive like most people, like you and me, and--and Mrs. Oliver, and those nice Bellairs’. He likes everyone and everything. Things are delightful to him merely because they exist.” Arnold groaned. “Whitman said that before you, the brute. If I thought Eddy had anything in common with Walt, our friendship would end forthwith.” “He has nothing whatever,” Jane reassured him, placidly. “Whitman hated all sorts of things. Whitman’s more like you; he’d have hated Welchester.”