He joined her on the ground outside the cottage. "Why is it a
pity?" he asked.

"Such a nice drawing."

"It isn't a nice drawing."

"You're not very polite, sir."

He looked at her--and sighed as if he pitied so young a woman for
having a temper so ready to take offense. In his flattest
contradictions he always preserved the character of a
politely-positive man.

"Put it in plain words, miss," he replied. "I have offended the
predominant sense in your nature--your sense of self-esteem. You
don't like to be told, even indirectly, that you know nothing of
Art. In these days, everybody knows everything--and thinks
nothing worth knowing after all. But beware how you presume on an
appearance of indifference, which is nothing but conceit in
disguise. The ruling passion of civilized humanity is, Conceit.
You may try the regard of your dearest friend in any other way,
and be forgiven. Ruffle the smooth surface of your friend's
self-esteem--and there will be an acknowledged coolness between
you which will last for life. Excuse me for giving you the
benefit of my trumpery experience. This sort of smart talk is
_my_ form of conceit. Can I be of use to you in some better way?
Are you looking for one of our young ladies?"