Presently we went in to dinner, and the performance began.  How skilfully it was all guided and modulated by our host, who was in his best form.  What delicate flies he threw over his fish; how softly they rose to them.  The talk flashed to and fro; the groups formed, broke, re-formed.  But it was a shallow stream; there was no zeal or vehemence; it was all polished, deft, superficial, conventional.  It was like playing an agile and elaborate game; and I felt that those who took part in it were congratulating themselves on the brilliance of the affair.  Education, religion, art, poetry, music—­we had something to say about all; and yet I felt that no light had been thrown upon anything.  A lady of high rank gave me her views upon the writing of English prose, with the air of one speaking condescendingly from Olympus, which, as we know, was above even Parnassus.  In the middle I caught the eye of the great man, who was opposite me; he gave me a mournful smile, and I read his thoughts.  When the ladies had withdrawn, my host, with a determined air as of a man above prejudice, started the conversation on rather more virile lines; and the result was a certain amount of delicately risque talk.  But even here we felt that it was not human nature that was revealed.  It was Voltairean rather than Rabelaisian; and I dislike both.  Then afterwards we sank into luxurious chairs in the rich perfumed drawing-room; we talked low and impressively to charming ladies; there was some exquisite music, so pure and sweet that it seemed to me to put to shame the complex and elaborate pageant of life in which we took part; and outside, one remembered, there were the rain-splashed streets, the homeless wind; and the toiling multitudes that made such delights possible, and gave of their dreary, sordid labour that we might sit thus at ease.  The whole thing seemed artificial, soulless, hectic, unreal.  One could not help thinking of Dives and Lazarus, that strange parable that has so stern a moral.  “But now he is comforted and thou art tormented.”  It is not suggested there that vice is punished and virtue rewarded; merely that wealth is penalised and poverty compensated.

Well, it is a great mystery.  No uneasy doubt as to the rightness of things, as they are, ever troubled the mind of my serene host or his gracious wife.  The following morning I went away; I was sped on my way with courteous kindness; but all the attention I received lies somewhat heavy on my heart.  I do not know how I could express to my friends what I felt; they would not understand it if I tried to explain it.  They think of me as a queer rustic being, fond of a lonely life; they feel, unconsciously enough, that they are conferring a benefit upon me by enabling me to set foot in so cultured a circle; and there is no sense of patronage about this—­nothing but real kindness.  But they feel that they are in possession of the higher and more beautiful life, and I have no sort of doubt that they believe I regard