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Rh "I was bored."

"I thought you were having a good time with Page."

"He's amusing, but not interesting. But Alice always puts the most interesting man where I can't talk to him."

"Oh, does she? Who was the interesting man to-night—the poet?"

"Poet! The rude Englishman, of course."

"Rude, was he? I thought he was gallant. He bolted off after you in no time."

"He was bored by your silly metaphysics. I kept thinking all the time you and Page were arguing, about Goethe's picture of the meta- physician—an ass led round by the nose in the midst of a barren plot of ground, while all round him are green fields that he never sees!"

"You flatter us. But where were the green fields to-night? Is Crayven a green field?"

"Not exactly. But something out-of-doors—natural and primitive."

"Hello, you've fallen in love with him! Any man is natural and primitive. The difficulty is to be anything else. But I can tell you, Crayven isn't primitive—he's only limited."

"I thought you liked him."

"No, not much. He's rather dry."

"He hasn't a free-flowing temperament, and doesn't like either whisky or philosophy—is that what you mean?"