Claud laughed, and flushed a little under cover of the friendly gloom.
"Miss Allonby is too near perfection to care for it in others," he said, with a suspicion of a sneer.
"Indeed? Do you think so? She seems full of faults to me."
His companion turned his head sharply towards him.
"Perhaps I hardly meant faults. I should say—amiable weakness. I only meant to express that to me she seems 'a being not too bright and good for human nature's daily food.' I am such a recluse, Mr. Cranmer, I must of necessity study my Wordsworth."
Claud was silent for a long time, and only the harmonious rushing of the brook broke the hush.
"Is that the idea she gives you?" he asked, at length. "Shall I tell you what I think of her? That she is incapable of passion, and so unfit for her century."
"Incapable of passion," said the elder man, slowly, "and so safe from the knowledge of infinite pain. For her sake I almost wish it were so. Have you read her books?"
"Yes."
"Don't you think the passion in them rings true?"