Josephine Thorn knew in her heart that it was true, but she did not like the tone in which John said it. There was an air of certainty about his way of talking that roused her opposition.
“I would do nothing so foolish,” said she. “You do not know me. And do you mean to tell me that you like these people who rush madly about the country and hunt in summer, and those sort of things?”
“No,” said John, “not always.”
“But you said you liked people. How awfully inconsistent you are!”
“Excuse me, I think not. I meant that I liked people and having to do with them–with men and women–better than I like things.”
“What are ’things’?” inquired Josephine, sarcastically. “You are not very clear in your way of expressing yourself.”
“I will be as clear as you please,” answered John, looking across the room at Miss Schenectady and her ancient friend, and devoutly wishing he could get away. “I mean by ‘things’ the study of the inanimate part of creation, of such sciences as are not directly connected with man’s thoughts and actions, and such pursuits as hunting, shooting, and sporting of all kinds, which lead only to the amusement of the individual. I mean also the production of literature for literature’s sake, and of works of art for the mere sake of themselves. When I say I like ‘people,’ I mean men and women, their opinions and their relations to each other.”
“I should think you would get very tired of them,” said Miss Thorn scornfully. “They are all dreadfully alike.”
She never forgot the look Harrington turned upon her as he answered. His calm, deep-set gray eyes gazed steadily at her, and his square features assumed an air of gravity that almost startled her.
“I am never tired of men and women,” he said. “Has it ever struck you, Miss Thorn, that the study of men and women means the study of government, and that a knowledge of men and women may give the power to influence the destiny of mankind?”