The question seemed natural, and yet, while he spoke in low tones, it suggested a kind of anger.
"Herr Trübner tells me you have spent your life in the East. I do not know much about the East, but I have called at Tunis, and have spent a few days in Cairo. It therefore struck me that to one who has lived his life there, a Devonshire village must seem strange."
"Did it never occur to you, Mr. Briarfield"—he uttered the name hesitatingly, as though he were not certain about the exact pronunciation—"that the differences which one sees in various parts of the world all lie on the surface?"
"No, I cannot say that. From what I have seen, they are deep."
"How deep?"
"Of course, it is impossible to calculate that."
"I do not think so. What is the covering of the world here? Mud. Yes, call it another name if you like; but it is still mud. Of course, it is very useful; it grows food. Away in Africa the world is covered in many places by sand; but it is only another form of mud. Grind it sufficiently fine, and it becomes slime—mud. But we must not grumble; it grows food. It is not exactly the same as you have here; but its qualities are similar. It goes to making blood, and bone, and sinew. Essentially, it is the same; superficially only, it is different."
"But I was thinking of men and women. The characteristics of the people who live near the Nile are different from those of us living here in England."
"Again, how deep is the difference?"
"I am afraid I do not quite follow you."