“I think modern education over-emphasizes the intellect.  I suppose that comes from the scientific trend of the times.  You cannot obtain a useful citizen if you only develop his intellect.  We take children from their parents because these cannot give them an intellectual training.  So far, good.  But we fail to give them that training in character which parents alone can give.  Home influence, as Grace Aguilar conceived it—­where has it gone?  It strikes me that this is a grave danger for the future.  We are rearing up a brood of crafty egoists, a generation whose earliest recollections are those of getting something for nothing from the State.  I am inclined to trace our present social unrest to this over-valuation of the intellect.  It hardens the heart and blights all generous impulses.  What is going to replace the home, Mr. Keith?  And there is another point which has often forced itself upon me.  A certain proportion of wealthy children tend to fall back into lower grades of life—­manual labour, and so forth.  They are born below the level of their parents.  No difficulty about relapsing.  But a fair percentage of the lowest classes tend to rise; they stand, potentially, above their surroundings.  An apparatus has been contrived for catching these children.  But it is defective, because devoid of sympathy.  I have known hundreds of cases in the East End of London where families have been unable to raise themselves by this means because, at the critical moment, there was not twenty shillings in the house wherewith to buy clothes in which the child could present himself to a good employer with any prospect of success.  Worthy of a better fate, he is pushed back.  The chance is missed; the family remains in poverty.  All kinds of profitable and honourable capacities are being wasted in this fashion every day—­peculiar aptitudes for mechanics, talents for art, or music, or acting—­”

“Acting!” interrupted Keith.  “I am glad you reminded me.  We are just in time to see some theatricals at the municipality.  They only come off once a year.  It would never do for you to miss them.  No, never.”

The bishop, rather regretfully, rose from his seat.  He was feeling comfortable just then, and inclined to listen to a few more of Keith’s educational heresies.  But that gentleman seemed to have exhausted the subject, or himself.

“It’s only a few minutes’ walk,” he observed.  “We’ll take a couple of sunshades.”

They stepped into the broiling heat.  The morning mists had rolled away from the mountains.

Walking along, Mr. Heard began to realize what a rambling and craggy sort of place this was.  And how decorative!  Almost operatic.  The town was full of surprises—­of unexpected glimpses upon a group of slender palms, some gleaming precipice, or the distant sea.  Gardens appeared to be toppling over the houses; green vines festooned the doorways and gaily coloured porches; streets climbed up and down, noisy with rattling carriages