“Well, if you admire La dame you can’t possibly think of this—this which we see here—as supreme and triumphant,” said Tom.
“I’m not sure that I do. I think perhaps that I have a touch of the scepticism you had—oh, ever so long ago; six weeks, isn’t it?—when you expected to find that the grand style was obsolete. How we shall quarrel when we manage the world, as we said we proposed to do.”
“It’s quite certain that we shall never manage together, if there is this difference between us. I shall be wanting to celebrate Olympic games while you are laying out boulevards.”
“Well, there’s room for both,” said Maud.
“No, no,” said Tom, “there is never enough room for the best, far less for the worst.”
“You are so splendidly illogical, Mr. Carlingford,” she said suddenly; “you see, you assume one is the best, and one the worst, and then build upon it. It is all very well to do that for one’s self, but one becomes unconvincing if one does it for other people.”
“It was better than if I had said at once that we differed fundamentally.”
Maud turned away.
“Yes, perhaps. But what is the use of saying unpleasant things at all?”
“Unpleasant?” asked Tom, wrinkling his forehead. “Why, I differ from all my best friends diametrically on every conceivable topic.”