Pacing up and down the terrace beside Hewet she
said bitterly:
"It's no good; we should live separate; we cannot understand each other;
we only bring out what's worst."
Hewet brushed aside her generalisation as to the natures of the two
sexes, for such generalisations bored him and seemed to him generally
untrue. But, knowing Hirst, he guessed fairly accurately what had
happened, and, though secretly much amused, was determined that Rachel
should not store the incident away in her mind to take its place in the
view she had of life.
"Now you'll hate him," he said, "which is wrong. Poor old Hirst--he
can't help his method. And really, Miss Vinrace, he was doing his best;
he was paying you a compliment--he was trying--he was trying--" he could
not finish for the laughter that overcame him.
Rachel veered round suddenly and laughed out too. She saw that there was
something ridiculous about Hirst, and perhaps about herself.
"It's his way of making friends, I suppose," she laughed. "Well--I shall
do my part. I shall begin--'Ugly in body, repulsive in mind as you are,
Mr. Hirst--"
"Hear, hear!" cried Hewet. "That's the way to treat him. You see, Miss
Vinrace, you must make allowances for Hirst. He's lived all his life
in front of a looking-glass, so to speak, in a beautiful panelled room,
hung with Japanese prints and lovely old chairs and tables, just one
splash of colour, you know, in the right place,--between the windows
I think it is,--and there he sits hour after hour with his toes on the
fender, talking about philosophy and God and his liver and his heart and
the hearts of his friends.
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