under extenuating circumstances? Alas
there had been no provocation given! No
one had addressed him. It was far from the
sole impulse of his native depravity, that
when homage was voted to Dixit—carried
as it were by acclamation—this unhappy man
had "begged to differ."

In this case society had been too deeply
convulsed for Mr. Dixit to ignore the culprit.
Calmly, as one who feels a crisis, but feels
also that he is equal to it, our oracle transfixed
Clayton with his eye, and observed,
"You beg to differ, sir," you say, "from this
company. I have not the slightest doubt
that this company will be resigned to your
doing so."

Then arose that short quick compound of
a laugh and a cough which Lady Ursula
meant for applause. Then arose that general
hum of admiration which was sure to greet
the discomfiture of Mr. Dixit's victims. Miss
Martindale alone, who walked somewhat
apart, was grave and silent.

But when the applause had subsided, she
said, "I really did not catch Mr. Clayton's
words. It might sometimes be interesting to
hear a new view."

"Not if it were an absurdity," replied Sir
Josiah's relict in a whisper that feigned to be
confidential but was heard by every one.

"An absurdity, madam!" ejaculated Clayton
himself. "Well it was my—my—it was
my opinion."

"Confine yourself to the terms of the
agreement," laughed the putter-down
carelessly. "Lady Ursula demurred to the
quality of the opinion—not to your property
in it."

It is wonderful what some men may do.
I thought this remark sheer ill-bred insolence.
But my companions—Miss Martindale again
excepted—gave it all the honours of polished
wit. Mr. Clayton drew himself erect and
turned on his assailant a look of dignified
surprise. He seemed about to speak; but
I suppose words were not ready. In another
minute he relapsed into his strange contortions
of face and galvanic gestures, and darted
abruptly into the house.

Dr. Mason then told us with a grave
look, almost amounting to reproof, that long
and intense study had strained the nerves
of his patient, that—buried in darling
abstractions, his mind had become introverted
and lost its calm healthy relations to the
body. Agreeable society—added the physician
—might do much for the case. The
society of those who would be tolerant to
a scholar's eccentricities from respect to their
cause.

This hint was not altogether lost. Let
me in candour state that for two or three
days Mr. Dixit and his suite were not only
forbearing but kind to the nervous invalid.
Unhappily, however, the latter could not
always hold his tongue. When certain topics
were discussed he grew excited and
expressed a quick and incoherent dissent from
our law-giver. At first that gentleman
would make a solemn pause and give a
warning look to remind Clayton in whose
presence he sat. But as these manœuvres
only provoked a more audacious resistance,
Mr. Dixit evidently felt at last that lenity
could be carried no further, and that the
system of putting-down must again be
resorted to. Accordingly all the engines of
that system were gradually brought into
play—quiet raillery, keen sarcasm, curt
decision, and a gaze of disdainful wonder, such
as the Great Mogul might give to the fly that
had settled on his nose.

I never saw a more unequal combat.
Clayton was only too willing to argue. He
would begin vehement sentences that lost
themselves in mazes of parenthesis and never
found their way out. He would attempt
to prop his dislocated meaning with
unwieldy crutches of gesture which tripped it
up completely. His guns kicked and shook
his own crazy fort—a structure which
tottered to pieces at the very sound of his
enemy's well-served and brilliant fire.

Miss Martindale no longer concealed her
annoyance at these attacks. Her bearing
became even deferential to Clayton, coldly
civil to Mr. Dixit. Perhaps she instinctively
knew the former better than the rest did.
He talked almost coherently when she led
the conversation, and sometimes there were
glimpses both in his thoughts and movements
of a grace strangely contrasting with
his habitual akwardness.

Good-natured Mr. Clevedon and myself,
too, found the poor victim conversable enough
when his persecutors were absent. We made
a trio one evening towards twilight, and our
talk chanced upon education. Mr. Clevedon
had possessed us of the important fact
that all the Tudors for the last three
generations had been educated at Oxford.
Somehow we diverged from this starting-point
to a more general discussion, with a
rapidity which I dare say somewhat
scandalised Miss Martindale's uncle.
"Education," insisted Clayton with unwonted
clearness "is too often confounded with
instruction. Education, as its root, educere,
shows, is to lead out—to lead out, to
develop our faculties. Instruction relates to
the knowledge which we acquire. And rely
upon it unless our capacities are first led
out or educated we shall make but a sorry
use of instruction. We must live before we
can learn, for—that is—I mean we must be
beings before we can—you know what I
mean."

"Yes," said Miss Martindale, who had
entered unperceived, "I quite agree with
you. It is curious, by the way, how your
views agree with those of a writer in the
—Review." She handed to Clayton a
well-known Quarterly, open at the page
which she had been reading. "The paper is