subject of which very little can be learnt in books--precisely the
subject that walked in a blue cotton dress by Christian Vellacott's side
at the edge of the moat. If any one thinks that book-learning can aid
this study, let him read the ignorance of Gibbon, comparing it with the
learning of that cheery old ignoramus Montaigne. And Vellacott was
nearer to Gibbon in his learning than to Montaigne in his careless
ignorance of those things that are written in books.

He glanced at her; he frowned and brought his whole attention to bear
upon her, and he could not even find out whether she was pleased to
listen to his congratulations, or angry, or merely indifferent. It was
rather a humiliating position for a clever man--for a critic who knew
himself to be capable of understanding most things, of catching the
drift of most thoughts, however imperfectly expressed. He was vaguely
conscious of defeat. He felt that he was nonplussed by a pair of soft
round eyes like the eyes of a kitten, and the dignified repose of a pair
of demure red lips. Both eyes and lips, as well as shoulders and golden
hair, were strangely familiar and strangely strange by turns.

With one finger he twisted the left side of his moustache into his
mouth, and, dragging at it with his teeth, distorted his face in an
unbecoming if reflective manner, which was habitually indicative of the
deepest attention.

While reflecting, he forgot to be conversational, and Hilda seemed to be
content with silence. So they walked the length of the moat twice
without speaking, and might have accomplished it a third time, had
little Stanley Carew not appeared upon the scene with the impulsive
energy of his thirteen years, begging Christian to bowl him some really
swift overhands.