is at best but a four-legged animal. Now this is almost a centipede
of a simile. I think I have had the same thought as yours here, and
I have compared the life of an individual to a curve. You both
smile. Now I thought that Dunsford at any rate would be pleased
with this reminiscence of college days. But to proceed with my
curve. You may have numbers of the points through which it passes
given, and yet know nothing of the nature of the curve itself. See,
now, it shall pass through here and here, but how it will go in the
interval, what is the law of its being, we know not. But this
simile would be too mathematical, I fear.

Milverton. I hold to the centipede.

Ellesmere. Not a word has Dunsford said all this time.

Dunsford. I like the essay. I was not criticising as we went
along, but thinking that perhaps the greatest charm of books is,
that we see in them that other men have suffered what we have. Some
souls we ever find who could have responded to all our agony, be it
what it may. This at least robs misery of its loneliness.

Ellesmere. On the other hand, the charm of intercourse with our
fellows, when we are in sadness, is that they do not reflect it in
any way. Each keeps his own trouble to himself, and often
pretending to think and care about other things, comes to do so for
the time.

Dunsford. Well, but you might choose books which would not reflect
your troubles.