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48 Count frankly, and he looked a little depressed. "But how is mind ever to do its work, how are ideas ever to gain ground, if you do not try to deal with the practical world?" There was a marked melancholy in his penetrating voice: something pathetic, too, in the luminous eyes: something of solemn sadness as he looked beyond us, as if seeking for a vision not far off. It was the look Mr. Sutcliffe had described to me that afternoon.

"I really don't know," said George laughing; "but I don't believe it pays to press into the service of ideas men who are incapable of understanding them. You will be astonished by the travesty of your philosophy which they will give to the world. If you want to destroy a man's character, or preach revolt, or get up an enthusiasm for individuals, low instruments may be of use; like a noisy drum, they call attention. But don't put anything too precious in their hands."

Next morning I was sorry to find that our host had gone to London for several days. But what delicious days those were which put him out of my mind! What glorious long hours on the moors when I drank in beauty, joy, peace, and assimilated the summer brightness with the facility of youth. Joy, peace and health may, often do, come later in life, but never again the clearness of a pleasure that is unhaunted by memory or unshadowed by fear.

The Count came back late one night after we had gone to bed. The next morning Marcelle came into my room before I was even thinking of getting up. I noticed at once a suspicion of tears on her eyelashes. Marcelle's dark eyes were not hard and inexpressive, as black eyes too often are; it was a clear lucent darkness suggestive of simplicity and receptivity, not of dull resistance.

"I am distressed," she said, sitting down on my bed. "I have made a confusion, I have forgotten to copy Paul's article for the Allgemeine Zeitung, and it will now be too