The other would be found to have informed herself exhaustively
concerning the history of some neglected people, dear to her for
some subtle reason of affinity or association. But in their
table-talk appeared no pedantry; things merely human were as
interesting to them as to the babbler of any drawing-room, and their
inexhaustible kindliness sweetened every word they spoke.

Nothing more salutary for Irene Derwent than this sojourn with
persons whom she in every way respected--with whom there was not
the least temptation to exhibit her mere dexterities. In London,
during this past season, she had sometimes talked as a young, clever
and admired girl is prone to do; always to the mockery of her sager
self when looking back on such easy triumphs. How very easy it was
to shine in London drawing-rooms, no one knew better. Here, in the
country stillness, in this beautiful old house sacred to sincerity
of heart and mind, to aim at "smartness" would indeed have been to
condemn oneself. Instead of phrasing, she was content, as became her
years, to listen; she enjoyed the feeling of natural youthfulness,
of spontaneity without misgiving. The things of life and intellect
appeared in their true proportions; she saw the virtue of repose.

When she had been here a day or two, the conversation chanced to
take a turn which led to her showing the autograph of Trafford
Romaine; she said merely that a friend had given it to her.

"An interesting man, I should think," remarked the elder of the two
sisters, without emphasis.

"An Englishman of a new type, wouldn't you say?" fell from the
other.