“Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. The cleanliness, the cant, the smug faces of men and women in the street, the worshippers in cathedrals, the keepers of Sabbaths, the respectable and the well-to-do, the Sunday hats and black coats of the men, the panaches and tight skirts of the women, the tea-fights, the well-read deans and their lady-like wives--what have I to do with these or these with me? All, all of them I loathe; away with them, I will not have them near me any more. _Allons, camerado_, I will take to the open road beneath the stars.... What a pity he would have said that; but I can’t alter my opinion, even for him.... How at home dear old Phil Underwood would be here, wouldn’t he. How he must enjoy his visits to the Deanery, where he’s a _persona grata_. And how he must bore the young sister. _She’s_ all right, you know, Jane. I rather like her. And she hates me. She’s quite genuine, and free from cant; just as worldly as they make ’em, and never pretends to be anything else. Besides, she’s all alive; rather like a young wild animal. It’s queer she and Eddy being brother and sister, she so decided and fixed in all her opinions and rejections, and he so impressionable. Oh, another thing--I have an unhappy feeling that Eddy is going, eventually, to marry that little yellow-eyed girl--Miss Bellairs. Somehow I feel it.” Jane said, “Nonsense,” and laughed. “She’s not a bit the sort.” “Of course she’s not. But to Eddy, as you observed, all sorts are acceptable. She’s one sort, you’ll admit. And one he’s attached to--wind and weather and jolly adventures and old companionship, she stands for to him. Not a subtle appeal, but still, an appeal. They’re fond of each other, and it will turn to that, you’ll see. Eddy never says, “That’s not the sort of thing, or the sort of person, for me.” Because they all are. Look at the way he swallowed those parsons down in his slum. Swallowed them--why, he loves them. Look at the way he accepts Welchester, stodginess and all, and likes it. He was the same at Cambridge; nothing was outside the range for him; he never drew the line. I’m really not particular”--Jane laughed at him again--“but I tell you he consorted sometimes with the most utterly utter, and didn’t seem to mind. Kept very bad company indeed on occasion; company the Dean wouldn’t at all have approved of, I’m sure. Many times I’ve had to step in and try in vain to haul him by force out of some select set. Nuts, smugs, pious men, betting _roués_, beefy hulks--all were grist to his mill. And still it’s the same. Miss Bellairs, no doubt, is a very nice girl, quite genuine and natural, and rather like a jolly kitten, which is always attractive. But she’s rigid within; she won’t mix with the people Eddy will want to mix with. She’s not comprehensive. She wouldn’t like us much, for instance; she’d think us rather queer and shady beings, not what she’s used to or understands. We should worry and puzzle her.