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Telling the story afterwards, he had spoken thus: "The old chap knew where he lived right enough; but dash me if I believe he noticed that I was taking him there in my car I had the A.i. Damyer out. That's how I came to make the acquaintance of these Dallisons. He's the writer, you know, and she paints rather the new school she admires Harpignies.
And that sense, the first to be attracted or revolted, the first to become fastidious with the culture of the body, the last to be expelled from the temple of the pure-spirit; that sense to whose refinement all breeding and all education is devoted; that sense which, ever an inch at least in front of man, is able to retard the development of nations, and paralyse all social schemes this Sense of Smell awakened within him the centuries of his gentility, the ghosts of all those Dallisons who, for three hundred years and more, had served Church or State.
Though he had since been to see them several times, the Dallisons had never robbed him of the virtuous feeling of that good action they had never let him know that he had brought home, not, as he imagined, a lunatic, but merely a philosopher. It had been somewhat of a quiet shock to him to find Mr.
The Dallisons had misconstrued him as much as, but no more than, he had misconstrued them when, as "Westminister" had informed Hilary, he "went on against the gentry." He was, in fact, a ragged screen, a broken vessel, that let light through its holes. A glass or two of beer, the fumes of which his wounded head no longer dominated, and he at once became "dreadful foreign."
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