“Confound it, man! Think of his clothes.”
“And when he’s grown up,” said Redwood, “he’ll only be one solitary Gulliver in a pigmy world.”
Mr. Bensington’s eye over his gold rim was pregnant.
“Why solitary?” he said, and repeated still more darkly, “Why solitary?”
“But you don’t propose—-?”
“I said,” said Mr. Bensington, with the self-complacency of a man who has produced a good significant saying, “Why solitary?”
“Meaning that one might bring up other children—-?”
“Meaning nothing beyond my inquiry.”
Redwood began to walk about the room. “Of course,” he said, “one might—But still! What are we coming to?”
Bensington evidently enjoyed his line of high intellectual detachment. “The thing that interests me most, Redwood, of all this, is to think that his brain at the top of him will also, so far as my reasoning goes, be five-and-thirty feet or so above our level.... What’s the matter?”