knowledge of human nature, old David Bittacy accepted the pain of being
obliged to keep a portion of his inner life shut off from the woman he
deeply loved. He regarded her little biblical phrases as oddities that
still clung to a rather fine, big soul--like horns and little useless
things some animals have not yet lost in the course of evolution while
they have outgrown their use.

"My dear, what is it? You frightened me!" She asked it suddenly, sitting
up so abruptly that her cap dropped sideways almost to her ear. For
David Bittacy behind his crackling paper had uttered a sharp exclamation
of surprise. He had lowered the sheet and was staring at her over the
tops of his gold glasses.

"Listen to this, if you please," he said, a note of eagerness in his
voice, "listen to this, my dear Sophia. It's from an address by Francis
Darwin before the Royal Society. He is president, you know, and son of
the great Darwin. Listen carefully, I beg you. It is _most_ significant."

"I _am_ listening, David," she said with some astonishment, looking up.
She stopped her knitting. For a second she glanced behind her. Something
had suddenly changed in the room, and it made her feel wide awake,
though before she had been almost dozing. Her husband's voice and manner
had introduced this new thing. Her instincts rose in warning. "_Do_
read it, dear." He took a deep breath, looking first again over the rims
of his glasses to make quite sure of her attention. He had evidently
come across something of genuine interest, although herself she often
found the passages from these "Addresses" somewhat heavy.

In a deep, emphatic voice he read aloud: