Constance.—"I'm not equal to that yet." Presently: "Then you—like—nature?"
Bartlett.—"Why, that's mere shop in a landscape painter. I get my bread and butter by her. At least I ought to have some feeling of gratitude."
Constance, hastily.—"Of course, of course. It's very stupid of me, asking."
Bartlett, with the desperate intention of grappling with the situation.—"I see you have a passion for formulating, classifying people, Miss Wyatt. That's all very well, if one's characteristics were not so very characteristic of everybody else. But I generally find in my moments of self-consciousness, when I've gone round priding myself that such and such traits are my peculiar property, that the first man I meet has them all and as many more, and isn't the least proud of them. I dare say you don't see anything very strange in them, so far."
Constance, musingly.—"Oh, yes; very strange indeed. They're all—wrong!"
Bartlett.—"Well! I don't know—I'm very sorry— Then you consider it wrong not to like shooting and to be fond of joking and nature, and"—
Constance, bewilderedly.—"Wrong? Oh no!"
Bartlett.—"Oh, I'm glad to hear it. But you just said it was."
Constance, slowly recalling herself, with a painful blush, at last.—"I meant—I meant I didn't expect any of those things of you."