And although he shook his head vigorously, Arthur inwardly contemplated that region in his mind wherein existed all the matters that comprised a knowledge quite irrelevant to the practical affairs of life but very useful for the purpose of living.
"I do have ideas," he admitted, thoughtfully. "I suppose I'm really what you might call an intellectual sort of chap."
"Dreadfully," said Rose, without a trace of disrespect. "The books you read!"
"Of course, I'm only a sort of amateur," Arthur continued, modestly. "But I do like books, and I can generally get at what a chap's driving at—in a way."
He stared hard at a grasshopper, who seemed to be considering the possibility of an enormous leap, for his great hind legs were taut and his long feelers caressed the air. "Sometimes I think the chaps who write books must be a bit like me—in a way. They seem to like the same things as I do. There's a lot about beauty in most books, and I like beauty, don't you?"
"Yes," breathed Rose, wondering what exactly he meant.
The grasshopper hopped and landed with a quite distinct thud, almost at their feet. They both looked at it without thinking about it at all. But its advent produced a pause.
"In the books I've read," Arthur resumed, "there's generally a chap whom you might regard as being not much good at anything and yet pretty decent."