The quiet figure with its secret, wicked smile, somehow slurred for me the sunshine and the pleasant flowers, and I was glad when we turned away.—­Ever yours,

T. B.

Upton,
June 11, 1904.

Dear Herbert,—­Yes, I am sure you are right.  The thing I get more and more impatient of every year is conventionality in every form.  It is rather foolish, I am well aware, to be impatient about anything; and great conventionality of mind is not inconsistent with entire sincerity, for the simple reason that conventionality is what ninety-nine hundredths of the human race enjoy.  Most people have no wish to make up their own minds about anything; they do not care to know what they like or why they like it.  This is often the outcome of a deep-seated modesty.  The ordinary person says to himself, “Who am I that I should set up a standard?  If all the people that I know like certain occupations and certain amusements, they are probably right, and I will try to like them too.”  I don’t mean that this feeling is often put into words, but it is there; and there is for most people an immense power in habit.  People grow to like what they do, and seldom inquire if they really like it, or why they like it.

Of course, to a certain extent, conventionality is a useful, peaceful thing.  I am not here recommending eccentricity of any kind.  People ought to fall in simply and quietly with ordinary modes of life, dress, and behaviour; it saves time and trouble; it sets the mind free.  But what I rather mean is that, when the ordinary usages of life have been complied with, all sensible people ought to have a line of their own about occupation, amusements, friends, and not run to and fro like sheep just where the social current sets.  What I mean is best explained by a couple of instances.  I met at dinner last night our old acquaintance, Foster, who was at school with us.  He was in my house; I don’t think you ever knew much of him.  He was a pleasant, good-humoured boy enough; but his whole mind was set on discovering the exact code of social school life.  He wanted to play the right games, to wear the right clothes, to know the right people.  He liked being what he called “in the swim.”  He never made friends with an obscure or unfashionable boy.  He was quite pleasant to his associates when he was himself obscure; but he waited quietly for his opportunity to recommend himself to prominent boys, and, when the time came, he gently threw over all his old companions and struck out into more distinguished regions.  He was never disagreeable or conceited; he merely dropped his humble friends until they too were approved as worthy of greater distinction, and then he took them up again.  He succeeded in his ambitions, as most cool and clear-headed persons do.  He became what would be called very popular; he gave himself no airs; he was always good company; he was never satirical or critical.  The same thing has gone