“The country life is so quiet, so refreshing; one cannot have too much of it,” she said, drumming idly with her fingers on the edge of the sofa.
“What are you reading, dear?” the young man asked.
“Kautsky’s Ethics of Materialist Conception of History.”
“Rather a big thing to tackle before breakfast.”
She cast a look of reproof at the young man, lifted the book from the table, then, as if something occurred to her, laid it down again.
“You haven’t read it, I bet,” she said; then before he could answer: “You promised last night to let me see some queer people—”
“Wrecks of the social system.”
“—who live on this farm.”
“An old man and woman,” said Morrison. “A quaint pair they are, stunted and seedy. They seem to have no souls, but I suppose deep down within them there is some eternal goodness, some fundamental virtue.”
“Who are you quoting?” asked the girl, getting to her feet. “Where are these two people?”