She coloured guiltily, and he laughed like a boy, delighted with his own cleverness.
"There's one thing Mr. Haggard might do for me," he said. "Lend me Clutton Brock's Shelley, if he would. He's got it, I know."
The girl made a mental note, wrinkling her brow.
"Shelley's Clutton Brock," she said. "I'll remember."
She sat beside his bed. His eyes dwelt on her keen, earnest young face, and the blue eyes gazing thoughtfully out of the window.
"You're a Philistine," he said at last. "But you're clean. Philistines are. That's the best of them."
"What's a Philistine?" she asked.
He did not answer her.
"You're the cleanest thing I've met," he continued. "There's a flame burning in you all the time that devours all your rubbish. Mine accumulates and corrupts."
"I don't like you to talk like that," said the girl, withdrawing.