“They’re so stupid,” said Hirst.  “You’re sitting on my pyjamas.”

“I suppose they are stupid?” Hewet wondered.

“There can’t be two opinions about that, I imagine,” said Hirst, hopping briskly across the room, “unless you’re in love—­that fat woman Warrington?” he enquired.

“Not one fat woman—­all fat women,” Hewet sighed.

“The women I saw to-night were not fat,” said Hirst, who was taking advantage of Hewet’s company to cut his toe-nails.

“Describe them,” said Hewet.

“You know I can’t describe things!” said Hirst.  “They were much like other women, I should think.  They always are.”

“No; that’s where we differ,” said Hewet.  “I say everything’s different.  No two people are in the least the same.  Take you and me now.”

“So I used to think once,” said Hirst.  “But now they’re all types.  Don’t take us,—­take this hotel.  You could draw circles round the whole lot of them, and they’d never stray outside.”

("You can kill a hen by doing that"), Hewet murmured.

“Mr. Hughling Elliot, Mrs. Hughling Elliot, Miss Allan, Mr. and Mrs. Thornbury—­one circle,” Hirst continued.  “Miss Warrington, Mr. Arthur Venning, Mr. Perrott, Evelyn M. another circle; then there are a whole lot of natives; finally ourselves.”

“Are we all alone in our circle?” asked Hewet.

“Quite alone,” said Hirst.  “You try to get out, but you can’t.  You only make a mess of things by trying.”

“I’m not a hen in a circle,” said Hewet.  “I’m a dove on a tree-top.”

“I wonder if this is what they call an ingrowing toe-nail?” said Hirst, examining the big toe on his left foot.

“I flit from branch to branch,” continued Hewet.  “The world is profoundly pleasant.”  He lay back on the bed, upon his arms.

“I wonder if it’s really nice to be as vague as you are?” asked Hirst, looking at him.  “It’s the lack of continuity—­that’s what’s so odd bout you,” he went on.  “At the age of twenty-seven, which is nearly thirty, you seem to have drawn no conclusions.  A party of old women excites you still as though you were three.”

Hewet contemplated the angular young man who was neatly brushing the rims of his toe-nails into the fire-place in silence for a moment.

“I respect you, Hirst,” he remarked.

“I envy you—­some things,” said Hirst.  “One:  your capacity for not thinking; two:  people like you better than they like me.  Women like you, I suppose.”

“I wonder whether that isn’t really what matters most?” said Hewet.  Lying now flat on the bed he waved his hand in vague circles above him.

“Of course it is,” said Hirst.  “But that’s not the difficulty.  The difficulty is, isn’t it, to find an appropriate object?”

“There are no female hens in your circle?” asked Hewet.

“Not the ghost of one,” said Hirst.