"Well"--Dyce murmured a laugh--"perhaps she might think me
interesting, in a way. Her subject is mine. I'm working at
sociology; have been for a long time. I'm getting my ideas into
shape, and I like to talk about them."

"Do you write?" asked the girl, without raising her eyes to his.

"No. People write too much; we're flooded with print. I've grown out
of my old ambitions that way. The Greek philosophers taught by word
of mouth, and it was better. I want to learn how to talk--to talk
well--to communicate what I have to say in a few plain words. It
saves time and money; I'm convinced, too, that it carries more
weight. Everyone nowadays can write a book, and most people do; but
how many can talk? The art is being utterly forgotten. Chatter and
gabble and mumble--an abuse of language. What's your view?"

"I think perhaps you are right."

"Come, now, I'm glad to hear you say that. If I had time, I would
tell you more; but here's the station, and there's the smoke of the
train. We've cut it rather close. Across the line; you'll have to
run--sharp!"

They did so, reaching the platform as the train drew up. Dyce
allowed his companion to open a carriage-door for herself. That was
quite in accord with his principles, but perhaps he would for once
have neglected them had he been sure by which class Miss Bride would
travel. She entered the third.

"You wouldn't care to introduce me to Lady Ogram?" he said, standing