"It makes a nice mince," said Mr. Fairthorn, with a sensual movement of
his lips. "One must think of dinner when one lives in the country: so
little else to think of! Not that Mr. Darrell does, but then he is
granite!"

"Still," said Lionel, smiling, "I do not get my answer. Why was the
house uncompleted? and why did Mr. Darrell retire from public life?"

"He took both into his head; and when a thing once gets there, it is no
use asking why. But," added Fairthorn, and his innocent ugly face
changed into an expression of earnest sadness,--"but no doubt he had his
reasons. He has reasons for all he does, only they lie far, far away
from what appears on the surface,--far as that rivulet lies from its
source! My dear young sir, Mr. Darrell has known griefs on which it does
not become you and me to talk. He never talks of them. The least I can
do for my benefactor is not to pry into his secrets, nor babble them out.
And he is so kind, so good, never gets into a passion; but it is so awful
to wound him,--it gives him such pain; that's why he frightens me,--
frightens me horribly; and so he will you when you come to know him.
Prodigious mind!--granite,--overgrown with sensitive plants. Yes, a
little music will do us both good."

Mr. Fairthorn screwed his flute, an exceedingly handsome one. He pointed
out its beauties to Lionel--a present from Mr. Darrell last Christmas--
and then he began. Strange thing, Art! especially music. Out of an
art, a man may be so trivial you would mistake him for an imbecile,--at
best a grown infant. Put him into his art, and how high he soars above
you! How quietly he enters into a heaven of which he has become a
denizen, and unlocking the gates with his golden key, admits you to
follow, a humble reverent visitor.