It's a pity they're so ugly."
She did not include Hewet in this criticism; she was thinking of the
clever, honest, interesting young men she knew, of whom Hirst was a
good example, and wondering whether it was necessary that thought and
scholarship should thus maltreat their bodies, and should thus elevate
their minds to a very high tower from which the human race appeared to
them like rats and mice squirming on the flat.
"And the future?" she reflected, vaguely envisaging a race of men
becoming more and more like Hirst, and a race of women becoming more and
more like Rachel. "Oh no," she concluded, glancing at him, "one wouldn't
marry you. Well, then, the future of the race is in the hands of Susan
and Arthur; no--that's dreadful. Of farm labourers; no--not of the
English at all, but of Russians and Chinese." This train of thought did
not satisfy her, and was interrupted by St. John, who began again:
"I wish you knew Bennett. He's the greatest man in the world."
"Bennett?" she enquired. Becoming more at ease, St. John dropped the
concentrated abruptness of his manner, and explained that Bennett was
a man who lived in an old windmill six miles out of Cambridge. He lived
the perfect life, according to St. John, very lonely, very simple,
caring only for the truth of things, always ready to talk, and
extraordinarily modest, though his mind was of the greatest.
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