to be of interest.

"So you don't know the difference between augite and hornblende?" he
once enquired. "Really? Dash my eyes! How old did you say you were?"

"Nineteen."

"And what have you been doing, Phipps, these last nineteen years?"

"One can't know everything at my age."

"Granted. But I think you might have learnt that much. Come to me on
Thursday morning. I'll see what I can do for you."

Mr. Heard rather admired this youthful scientist. The fellow knew what
he was after; he was after stones. Perfect of his kind--a condition
which always appealed to the bishop. Pleasant youngsters, both of them.
And so different from each other!

As to Denis--he could not make up his mind about Denis. To begin with,
he exhaled that peculiar College aroma which the most heroic efforts of
a lifetime often fail to dissipate. Then, he had said something about
Florence, and Cinque-Cento, and Jacopo Bellini. The bishop, a practical
man, had not much use for Jacopo Bellini or for people who talked about
him. None the less, while making himself useful with unpacking and
arranging things, Denis dropped a remark which struck Mr. Heard.

"The canvas of Nepenthe," he observed, "is rather overcharged."

Rather overcharged. . . .