"What is she like? Handsome?" Mrs Darwen asked.
"Very; and full of pluck."
"Full of pluck! Ah!" she gave a deep sigh. "They feel it most, always." She seemed very sad all of a sudden. "What's that bit of poetry, Charlie, about the strongest and the wisest, you know."
"Is it true, O Christ in Heaven, that the wisest suffer most,
That the strongest wander farthest, and most hopelessly are lost."
"That's it. You're very strong, Mr Carstairs. Brutal almost, and wise."
"I should like to be, but I'm afraid I'm rather weak and silly at times."
She gazed at him steadily with a puzzled air. "You're different," she said, "you're not like the men of my generation. Are you a horseman?"
"No, I'm an engineer."
"That's the difference, I expect. It's a new type to me."
Darwen swung round on his music stool. "It's a new type to the world, mater; a sort of thinking machine, getting the human emotions thoroughly under control; the horseman was a sort of embryo engineer, he utilised the forces of nature according to his lights, but he was essentially a passionate man, he opposed his will to the brute's will. The engineer has to do with inanimate lumps of metal, and it's no use hitting them. Have you ever observed, Carstairs, the old type of fitter let go with his hammer at a job that's baffling him, the younger generation is much less so, he thinks. Nowadays every one is becoming more or less of an engineer, and it's good, it makes necessary a higher standard of intelligence, of self-reliance, and self-control. The nation of the future is the nation with the best engineers."