lot; he understood them all; they belonged to definite, predigested
types that are the same the world over, and that he had met the world
over long ago.

But to none of them did he belong. His nature was too "multiple" to
subscribe to the set of shibboleths of any one class. And, since all
liked him, and felt that somehow he seemed outside of them--spectator,
looker-on--all sought to claim him.

In a sense, therefore, the three worlds fought for him: natives,
tourists, Nature....

It was thus began the singular conflict for the soul of Hibbert. _In_
his own soul, however, it took place. Neither the peasants nor the
tourists were conscious that they fought for anything. And Nature, they
say, is merely blind and automatic.

The assault upon him of the peasants may be left out of account, for it
is obvious that they stood no chance of success. The tourist world,
however, made a gallant effort to subdue him to themselves. But the
evenings in the hotel, when dancing was not in order, were--English. The
provincial imagination was set upon a throne and worshipped heavily
through incense of the stupidest conventions possible. Hibbert used to
go back early to his room in the post office to work.

"It is a mistake on my part to have _realised_ that there is any
conflict at all," he thought, as he crunched home over the snow at
midnight after one of the dances. "It would have been better to have
kept outside it all and done my work. Better," he added, looking back
down the silent village street to the church tower, "and--safer."