more. It is the honest but uncultured point of view. I am that
primitive thing, the mere male animal. It was my love of Nature,
therefore, that showed me beauty, since this was the only apparatus
in my temperament able to respond. Natural, simple things, as before,
were the channel through which beauty appealed to that latent store
of love and wisdom in me which, it almost seemed, were being slowly
educated.

The talks and intimacies with our mother, then, were largely over; the
re-knitting of an interrupted relationship was fairly accomplished;
she had asked her questions, and listened to my answers. All the
dropped threads had been picked up again, so that a pattern, similar
to the one laid aside, now lay spread more or less comfortably before
us. Outwardly, things seemed much as they were when I left home so
many years ago. One might have thought the interval had been one of
months, since her attitude refused to recognize all change, and
change, qud growth, was abhorrent to her type. For whereas I had
altered, she had remained unmoved.

So unsatisfying was this state of things to me, however, that I felt
unable to confide my deepest, as now I can do easily to you--so that
during these few days of intercourse renewed, we had said, it seemed,
all that was to be said with regard to the past. My health was most
lovingly discussed, and then my immediate and remoter future. I was
aware of this point of view--that I was, of course, her own dear son,
but that I was also England's son. She was intensely patriotic in the
insular sense; my soul, I mean, belonged to the British Empire rather
than to humanity and the world at large. Doubtless, a very right and
natural way to look at things. . . . She expressed a real desire to "see
your photographs, my boy, of those outlandish places where they sent