On this particular afternoon he was more than usually glad to have a
few minutes' quiet chat with Beatrice. That which he had seen and
heard on his four hours' ride had stirred to life a sudden doubt in
himself and in his hitherto firmly rooted principles, and, like a
great many men, he felt that he could only regain a clear outlook by
an exchange of ideas with some second person.
"You know my standpoint pretty well by now," he said, as, seated in a
comfortable lounge chair, he watched Beatrice busy over some patterns
which she had just received from London. "It isn't your standpoint, of
course, and no doubt you would be fully in your right to say, 'I told
you so,' when I confess that I am beginning to waver."
"I never say, 'I told you so,'" she returned, smiling. "That is the
war-cry of those accustomed to few triumphs."
"Not that by wavering I mean that I am coming round to your opinions,"
he went on. "On the contrary, nothing on this earth will shake my
theory that a mingling of races is an impossibility. They must and
will, with few exceptions, remain separate to all eternity, and one or
the other must have the upper hand if there is to be any law or order.
No, it's not that. It's my self-satisfaction that is beginning to
waver."
"You must be more explicit," Beatrice observed.
"I mean, men like myself--in fact, most Englishmen--are pretty well
convinced, even when they have the rare tact of keeping it to
themselves, that they are the salt of the earth.
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