"In a way. Helen has their refinement, but she's made of harder stuff.
She would wear better among strains and shocks."

Festing shook his head. "Girls like her ought to be sheltered and kept
from shocks. After all, there's something to be said for Charnock's
point of view. Your delicate English grace and bloom ought to be
protected and not rubbed off by the rough cares of life."

"I don't know if you're nice or not," Muriel rejoined with a laugh.
"Anyway, you don't know many English girls, and your ideas about us are
old-fashioned. We are not kept in lavender now. Besides, it isn't the
surface bloom that matters, and fine stuff does not wear out. It takes
a keener edge and brighter polish from strenuous use. And Helen is fine
stuff."

"So I thought," said Festing quietly, and stopped at the end of the
terrace. The bleating of sheep had died away, and except for the splash
of the beck a deep silence brooded over the dale. The sun had set and
the landscape was steeped in soft blues and grays, into which woods and
hills slowly melted.

"It's remarkably pleasant here," he said. "Not a sign of strain and
hurry; things seem to run on well-oiled wheels! Perhaps the greatest
change is to feel that one has nothing to do."

"But you had holidays now and then in Canada."

"No," said Festing. "Anyhow I've had none for a very long time. Of
course there are lonely places, and in winter the homesteads on the
plains are deadly quiet, but I was always where some big job was rushed