"I must ask you to believe that I was thinking of your comfort and
not of my own."
"Yes, I know you were," she answered. "Our circle is rather
limited, as you will find, and very few of the neighbours have time
to think of their houses. Most of them are missionaries, and they
are so busy; they have a large field, you see."
"Very--and a weedy one, I should think."
He was looking round, noting with well-trained glance the thousand
little indescribable touches that make a charming room. He knew his
ground. He knew the date and the meaning of every little ornament--
the title and the writer of each book--the very material with which
the chairs were covered; and he knew that all was good--all arranged
with that art which is the difference between ignorance and
knowledge.
"I see you have all the new books."
"Yes, we have books and magazines; but, of course, we live quite out
of the world."
She paused, leaving the conversation with him, as in the hands of
one who knew his business.
"I," he said, filling up the pause, "have hitherto lived in the
world--right in it. There is a lot of dust and commotion; the dust
gets into people's eyes and blinds them; the commotion wears them
out; and perhaps, after all, Loango is better!"
He spoke with the easy independence of the man of the world,
accustomed to feel his way in strange places--not heeding what
opinion he might raise--what criticism he might brave.
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