ish she would be sharp with you--as I am."

"Are you sharp?" Winthrop had asked, smiling indulgently at the contrast
between her allegation and the voice in which it was uttered.

Garda, with her hand on Margaret's arm, was now walking onward, humming
lightly to herself as she walked. Her humming was vague, as she had no
ear for music. It was a complete lack, however; she was not one of those
persons who are haunted by tunes half caught, who afflictingly sing a
song all through a semi-note flat, and never know it.

Margaret's eyes were following the sands. "What lovely sea-weeds," she
said, as little-branching fibres, like crimson frost-work, began to dot
the silver here and there.

"Now how feminine that is!" said Winthrop, argumentatively, as he
strolled on beside them. "Instead of looking at the ocean, or this grand
beach as a whole, what does Mrs. Harold do? She spends her time admiring
an infinitesimal pink fragment at her feet. Fragments!--I am tired of
the fragmentary taste. In a picture, even the greatest, you fragmentary
people are always admiring what you call the side touches; you talk
about some little thing that has been put in merely as a decorative
feature, or if for a wonder you do select a figure, it is sure to be
one of minor importance; the effect of the whole as a whole, the central
idea to which the artist has given his best genius and power, this you
don't care for, hardly see. It is the same way with a book; it is always
some fragment of outside talk or description, some subordinate
character, to which you give your praise; never--no matter how fine it
is--the leading motive and its development. In an old cathedral, too,
you women go putting your pretty noses close to all the little things,
the bits of old carving, an old inscription--in short, the details; the
effect of the grand mass of the whole, rising against the sky, this you
know nothing whatever about."

"I am glad at least that the noses are pretty," interpolated Garda, amid
her humming.

"I think I have met a few men also who admire details," observed
Margaret.

"A few? Plenty of them. They are the men of the feminine turn of mind.
But don't imagine that I don't care for details; details in their proper
place may be admirable, exquisite. What I am objecting to is their being
pushed into a place which is not theirs by you fragmentary people, who
simply shirk (I don't know whether it is from indolence or want of
mental grasp) any c