“Yes, if I can—or what is a philosopher?”
“A philosopher philosophizes.”
“Does he really? Is that a difficult thing to do, to philosopherize?”
“Yes; it’s almost harder to do than to pronounce.”
Soon they were tearing down the hill, frightening the larks to right and left of their progress.
The weather grew warmer every day, and at last Mrs. Carthew came out in a wheel-chair to see the long-spurred columbines, claret and gold, watchet, rose and white.
“Really quite a display,” she said to Michael. “And so you’re to get married?”
He nodded.
“What for?” the old lady demanded, looking at him over her spectacles.
“Well, principally because I want to,” Michael answered, after a short pause.