“I could never make you understand the difference,” said Frank, gravely.
“Never make you understand!” said Philip, mimicking his voice and manner. “I think I can understand them pretty well without your help. Don’t trouble yourself. They are just like other people. It is true that Mrs Inglis looks just as much of a lady in her plain gown and in that shabby room as she could in any of the fine drawing-rooms, and that is more than could be said of some of the ladies I know. She is a good woman, too, I am sure. As for Davie, he is a young prig—though he is good, too, I dare say. Violet is a little modest flower. They are very nice, all of them, but they are not beyond my powers of comprehension, I fancy, Frank, lad.”
“All right, if you think so,” said Frank.
Philip was amused and a little vexed at his brother’s persistency.
“Do you know them, Frank,—‘understand’ them, as you call it?”
“I know they are very different from us, and from all the people we know most about, and I think I know what makes the difference, though I don’t quite understand it. You would know what I mean if you had seen Mr Inglis and knew the kind of life he lived.”
“I have seen, and I know what his character was. He was an unworldly sort of man, I believe.”
“He did not live for his own pleasure,” said Frank, gravely. “He wasn’t his own. He lived to serve his Master. I can’t tell you. You should speak to Davie or Violet about him, or to Aunt Mary.”
“Well, so I will, some day,” said Philip.
Frank made no reply.