"Miss Dormer's herself an English picture," their visitor pronounced in the tone of a man whose urbanity was a general solvent.
"That's a compliment if you don't like them!" Biddy exclaimed.
"Ah some of them, some of them; there's a certain sort of thing!" Mr. Nash continued. "We must feel everything, everything that we can. We're here for that."
"You do like English art then?" Nick demanded with a slight accent of surprise.
Mr. Nash indulged his wonder. "My dear Dormer, do you remember the old complaint I used to make of you? You had formulas that were like walking in one's hat. One may see something in a case and one may not."
"Upon my word," said Nick, "I don't know any one who was fonder of a generalisation than you. You turned them off as the man at the street-corner distributes hand-bills."
"They were my wild oats. I've sown them all."
"We shall see that!"
"Oh there's nothing of them now: a tame, scanty, homely growth. My only good generalisations are my actions."
"We shall see them then."