“What’s that?” he replied to a question from Olney that broke in upon his train of thought.

“I was saying that I hoped you wouldn’t be fool enough to tackle Latin.”

“But Latin is more than culture,” Ruth broke in.  “It is equipment.”

“Well, are you going to tackle it?” Olney persisted.

Martin was sore beset.  He could see that Ruth was hanging eagerly upon his answer.

“I am afraid I won’t have time,” he said finally.  “I’d like to, but I won’t have time.”

“You see, Martin’s not seeking culture,” Olney exulted.  “He’s trying to get somewhere, to do something.”

“Oh, but it’s mental training.  It’s mind discipline.  It’s what makes disciplined minds.”  Ruth looked expectantly at Martin, as if waiting for him to change his judgment.  “You know, the foot-ball players have to train before the big game.  And that is what Latin does for the thinker.  It trains.”

“Rot and bosh!  That’s what they told us when we were kids.  But there is one thing they didn’t tell us then.  They let us find it out for ourselves afterwards.”  Olney paused for effect, then added, “And what they didn’t tell us was that every gentleman should have studied Latin, but that no gentleman should know Latin.”

“Now that’s unfair,” Ruth cried.  “I knew you were turning the conversation just in order to get off something.”

“It’s clever all right,” was the retort, “but it’s fair, too.  The only men who know their Latin are the apothecaries, the lawyers, and the Latin professors.  And if Martin wants to be one of them, I miss my guess.  But what’s all that got to do with Herbert Spencer anyway?  Martin’s just discovered Spencer, and he’s wild over him.  Why?  Because Spencer is taking him somewhere.  Spencer couldn’t take me anywhere, nor you.  We haven’t got anywhere to go.  You’ll get married some day, and I’ll have nothing to do but keep track of the lawyers and business agents who will take care of the money my father’s going to leave me.”

Onley got up to go, but turned at the door and delivered a parting shot.

“You leave Martin alone, Ruth.  He knows what’s best for himself.  Look at what he’s done already.  He makes me sick sometimes, sick and ashamed of myself.  He knows more now about the world, and life, and man’s place, and all the rest, than Arthur, or Norman, or I, or you, too, for that matter, and in spite of all our Latin, and French, and Saxon, and culture.”

“But Ruth is my teacher,” Martin answered chivalrously.  “She is responsible for what little I have learned.”

“Rats!” Olney looked at Ruth, and his expression was malicious.  “I suppose you’ll be telling me next that you read Spencer on her recommendation—­only you didn’t.  And she doesn’t know anything more about Darwin and evolution than I do about King Solomon’s mines.  What’s that jawbreaker definition about something or other, of Spencer’s, that you sprang on us the other day—­that indefinite, incoherent homogeneity thing?  Spring it on her, and see if she understands a word of it.  That isn’t culture, you see.  Well, tra la, and if you tackle Latin, Martin, I won’t have any respect for you.”