“I wish you knew Bennett.  He’s the greatest man in the world.”

“Bennett?” she enquired.  Becoming more at ease, St. John dropped the concentrated abruptness of his manner, and explained that Bennett was a man who lived in an old windmill six miles out of Cambridge.  He lived the perfect life, according to St. John, very lonely, very simple, caring only for the truth of things, always ready to talk, and extraordinarily modest, though his mind was of the greatest.

“Don’t you think,” said St. John, when he had done describing him, “that kind of thing makes this kind of thing rather flimsy?  Did you notice at tea how poor old Hewet had to change the conversation?  How they were all ready to pounce upon me because they thought I was going to say something improper?  It wasn’t anything, really.  If Bennett had been there he’d have said exactly what he meant to say, or he’d have got up and gone.  But there’s something rather bad for the character in that—­I mean if one hasn’t got Bennett’s character.  It’s inclined to make one bitter.  Should you say that I was bitter?”

Helen did not answer, and he continued: 

“Of course I am, disgustingly bitter, and it’s a beastly thing to be.  But the worst of me is that I’m so envious.  I envy every one.  I can’t endure people who do things better than I do—­perfectly absurd things too—­waiters balancing piles of plates—­even Arthur, because Susan’s in love with him.  I want people to like me, and they don’t.  It’s partly my appearance, I expect,” he continued, “though it’s an absolute lie to say I’ve Jewish blood in me—­as a matter of fact we’ve been in Norfolk, Hirst of Hirstbourne Hall, for three centuries at least.  It must be awfully soothing to be like you—­every one liking one at once.”

“I assure you they don’t,” Helen laughed.

“They do,” said Hirst with conviction.  “In the first place, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen; in the second, you have an exceptionally nice nature.”

If Hirst had looked at her instead of looking intently at his teacup he would have seen Helen blush, partly with pleasure, partly with an impulse of affection towards the young man who had seemed, and would seem again, so ugly and so limited.  She pitied him, for she suspected that he suffered, and she was interested in him, for many of the things he said seemed to her true; she admired the morality of youth, and yet she felt imprisoned.  As if her instinct were to escape to something brightly coloured and impersonal, which she could hold in her hands, she went into the house and returned with her embroidery.  But he was not interested in her embroidery; he did not even look at it.

“About Miss Vinrace,” he began,—­“oh, look here, do let’s be St. John and Helen, and Rachel and Terence—­what’s she like?  Does she reason, does she feel, or is she merely a kind of footstool?”