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after this strange and splendid model for merely aesthetic reasons。〃
The contemplation of the glories of the past always evoked in Henry
Wimbush a certain enthusiasm。 Under the grey bowler his face worked
and glowed as he spoke。 The thought of these vanished privies moved
him profoundly。 He ceased to speak； the light gradually died out of his
face； and it became once more the replica of the grave； polite hat which
shaded it。 There was a long silence； the same gently melancholy
thoughts seemed to possess the mind of each of them。 Permanence；
transienceSir Ferdinando and his privies were gone； Crome still stood。
How brightly the sun shone and how inevitable was death！ The ways of
God were strange； the ways of man were stranger still。。。
〃It does one's heart good；〃 exclaimed Mr。 Scogan at last； 〃to hear of
these fantastic English aristocrats。 To have a theory about privies and to
build an immense and splendid house in order to put it into practiseit's
magnificent； beautiful！ I like to think of them all： the eccentric milords
rolling across Europe in ponderous carriages； bound on extraordinary
errands。 One is going to Venice to buy La Bianchi's larynx； he won't get
it till she's dead； of course； but no matter； he's prepared to wait； he has a
collection； pickled in glass bottles； of the throats of famous opera singers。
And the instruments of renowned virtuosi he goes in for them too； he
will try to bribe Paganini to part with his little Guarnerio； but he has small
hope of success。 Paganini won't sell his fiddle； but perhaps he might
sacrifice one of his guitars。 Others are bound on crusadesone to die
miserably among the savage Greeks； another； in his white top hat； to lead
Italians against their oppressors。 Others have no business at all； they are
just giving their oddity a continental airing。 At home they cultivate
themselves at leisure and with greater elaboration。 Beckford builds
towers； Portland digs holes in the ground； Cavendish； the millionaire； lives
in a stable； eats nothing but mutton； and amuses himselfoh； solely for his
private delectationby anticipating the electrical discoveries of half a
century。 Glorious eccentrics！ Every age is enlivened by their presence。
Some day； my dear Denis；〃 said Mr Scogan； turning a beady bright regard
in his direction〃some day you must become their biographer'The Lives
of Queer Men。' What a subject！ I should like to undertake it myself。〃
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Mr。 Scogan paused； looked up once more at the towering house； then
murmured the word 〃Eccentricity；〃 two or three times。
〃Eccentricity。。。It's the justification of all aristocracies。 It justifies
leisured classes and inherited wealth and privilege and endowments and
all the other injustices of that sort。 If you're to do anything reasonable in
this world； you must have a class of people who are secure； safe from
public opinion； safe from poverty； leisured； not compelled to waste their
time in the imbecile routines that go by the name of Honest Work。 You
must have a class of which the members can think and； within the obvious
limits； do what they please。 You must have a class in which people who
have eccentricities can indulge them and in which eccentricity in general
will be tolerated and understood。 That's the important thing about an
aristocracy。 Not only is it eccentric itselfoften grandiosely so； it also
tolerates and even encourages eccentricity in others。 The eccentricities
of the artist and the new…fangled thinker don't inspire it with that fear；
loathing； and disgust which the burgesses instinctively feel towards them。
It is a sort of Red Indian Reservation planted in the midst of a vast horde
of Poor Whitescolonials at that。 Within its boundaries wild men disport
themselvesoften； it must be admitted； a little grossly； a little too
flamboyantly； and when kindred spirits are born outside the pale it offers
them some sort of refuge from the hatred which the Poor Whites； en bons
bourgeois； lavish on anything that is wild or out of the ordinary。 After
the social revolution there will be no Reservations； the Redskins will be
drowned in the great sea of Poor Whites。 What then？ Will they suffer
you to go on writing villanelles； my good Denis？ Will you； unhappy
Henry； be allowed to live in this house of the splendid privies； to continue
your quiet delving in the mines of futile knowledge？ Will Anne。。。〃
〃And you；〃 said Anne； interrupting him； 〃will you be allowed to go on
talking？〃
〃You may rest assured；〃 Mr。 Scogan replied； 〃that I shall not。 I shall
have some Honest Work to do。〃
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CHAPTER XII。
Blight； Mildew； and Smut。。。〃 Mary was puzzled and distressed。
Perhaps her ears had played her false。 Perhaps what he had really said
was； 〃Squire； Binyon； and Shanks；〃 or 〃Childe； Blunden； and Earp；〃 or
even 〃Abercrombie； Drinkwater； and Rabindranath Tagore。〃 Perhaps。
But then her ears never did play her false。 〃Blight； Mildew； and Smut。〃
The impression was distinct and ineffaceable。 〃Blight； Mildew。。。〃 she
was forced to the conclusion； reluctantly； that Denis had indeed
pronounced those improbable words。 He had deliberately repelled her
attempts to open a serious discussion。 That was horrible。 A man who
would not talk seriously to a woman just because she was a womanoh；
impossible！ Egeria or nothing。 Perhaps Gombauld would be more
satisfactory。 True； his meridional heredity was a little disquieting； but at
least he was a serious worker； and it was with his work that she would
associate herself。 And Denis？ After all； what WAS Denis？ A dilettante；
an amateur。。。
Gombauld had annexed for his painting…