“Surely at your age, sir, and with your evident education—”
“Say culture; that’s the word in fashion nowadays.”
“Well, your evident culture, you must have made verses.”
“Latin verses, yes; and occasionally Greek. I was obliged to do so at school. It did not amuse me.”
“Try English.”
Kenelm shook his head. “Not I. Every cobbler should stick to his last.”
“Well, put aside the verse-making: don’t you find a sensible enjoyment in those solitary summer walks, when you have Nature all to yourself,—enjoyment in marking all the mobile evanescent changes in her face,—her laugh, her smile, her tears, her very frown!”
“Assuming that by Nature you mean a mechanical series of external phenomena, I object to your speaking of a machinery as if it were a person of the feminine gender,—her laugh, her smile, etc. As well talk of the laugh and smile of a steam-engine. But to descend to common-sense. I grant there is some pleasure in solitary rambles in fine weather and amid varying scenery. You say that it is a holiday excursion that you are enjoying. I presume, therefore, that you have some practical occupation which consumes the time that you do not devote to a holiday?”
“Yes; I am not altogether an idler. I work sometimes, though not so hard as I ought. ‘Life is earnest,’ as the poet says. But I and my dog are rested now, and as I have still a long walk before me I must wish you good-day.”
“I fear,” said Kenelm, with a grave and sweet politeness of tone and manner, which he could command at times, and which, in its difference from merely conventional urbanity, was not without fascination,—“I fear that I have offended you by a question that must have seemed to you inquisitive, perhaps impertinent; accept my excuse: it is very rarely that I meet any one who interests me; and you do.” As he spoke he offered his hand, which the wayfarer shook very cordially.