“It is the same thing, as far as this question goes. You don’t recognize their cleverness even, since you dislike them so.”
Tom drew a sigh of relief.
“Oh well, then, you are wrong about it. I fully recognize how clever they are.”
“Then you don’t admire cleverness, which is a great deficiency.”
“On the contrary, I do admire cleverness; but Manvers’ seems to me perverted cleverness. I admire ingenuity as an abstract quality, though I don’t care for those diabolical little puzzles which every one used to play with last year.”
Maud shut up her paint-box, and rose.
“It’s no use arguing,” she said. “An argument never comes to anything if you disagree; no argument ever converted any one.”
“But I’m quite willing to be converted,” said Tom.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not at all sure that I want to convert you. I like you better as you are. Who is it who speaks of the ‘genial impulses of love and hate’? Your hatred for Mr. Manvers’ things is so intensely genial, so natural to you.”
They walked down the steps together, and stood for a moment looking over the broad plain, with its fields of corn already sprouting, stretching up towards the grey mass of Parnes.