his class. Quite genuinely, quite seriously, he was unconscious of the
human significance of beings and institutions belonging to a foreign
country or even to a class other than his own. His own kind he treated
as complete and understandable human creatures. All others were merely
objective. As we, to a certain extent, happened to fall in the former
category, he was as pleasant to us as possible--that is, he was pleasant
to us in his way, but had not insight enough to guess at how to be
pleasant to us in our way. But as soon as he got out of his own class,
or what he conceived to be such, he considered all people as
"outsiders." He did not credit them with prejudices to rub, with
feelings to hurt, indeed hardly with ears to overhear. Provided his
subject was an "outsider," he had not the slightest hesitancy in saying
exactly what he thought about any one, anywhere, always in his high
clear English voice, no matter what the time or occasion. As a natural
corollary he always rebuffed beggars and the like brutally, and was
always quite sublimely doing little things that thoroughly shocked our
sense of the other fellow's rights as a human being. In all this he did
not mean to be cruel or inconsiderate. It was just the way he was built;
and it never entered his head that "such people" had ears and brains.

In the rest of the ship's company were a dozen or so other Englishmen of
the upper classes, either army men on shooting trips, or youths going
out with some idea of settling in the country. They were a clean-built,
pleasant lot; good people to know anywhere, but of no unusual interest.
It was only when one went abroad into the other nations that inscribable
human interest could be found.

There was the Greek, Scutari, and his bride, a languorous rather
opulent beauty, with large dark eyes for all men, and a luxurious manner
of lying back and fanning herself. She talked, soft-voiced, in half a