“What?”
“That curious phycomycetous fungus that produces resting-spores by the conjugation of two similar club-shaped hyphæ, and in which conidia also occur. It’s fascinating.”
After a silence he said:
“What would you think of me if I told you that I do not comprehend a single word of what you have just told me?”
“Don’t you?” she asked, astonished.
“No,” he replied, dropping her hand. She wondered, vaguely distressed; and he went on presently: “As a plain matter of fact, I don’t know much. It’s an astonishing discovery for me, but it’s a fact that I am not
your mental, physical, or spiritual equal. In sheer, brute strength perhaps I am, and I am none too certain of that, either. But, and I say it to my shame, I can not follow you; I am inferior in education, in culture, in fine instinct, in mental development. You chatter in a dozen languages to your sisters: my French appals a Paris cabman; you play any instrument I ever heard of: the guitar is my limit, the fandango my repertoire. As for alert intelligence, artistic comprehension, ability to appreciate, I can not make the running with you; I am outclassed—hopelessly. Now, if this is all true—and I have spoken the wretched truth—what can a man like me have to say for himself?”
Her head was bent, her fair face was in shadow. She strayed on a little way, then, finding herself alone, turned and looked back at him where he stood. For a moment they remained motionless, looking at one another, then, as on some sweet impulse, she came back hastily and looked into his eyes.
“I do not feel as you do,” she said; “you are very—good—company. I am not all you say; I know very little. Listen. It—it distresses
me to have you think I hold you—lightly. Truly we are not apart.”