tly, still ached; but suddenly she started and exclaimed 'There
are the Harvey-Brownes.'

'And who, pray, are the Harvey-Brownes?' I inquired, following the
direction of her eyes.

It was easy enough to see which of the groups of tourists were the
Harvey-Brownes. They were going in the same direction as ourselves, a
tall couple in clothes of surpassing simplicity and excellence.
Immediately afterwards we drove past them; Charlotte bowed coldly; the
Harvey-Brownes bowed cordially, and I saw that the young man was my
philosophic friend of the afternoon at Vilm.

'And who, pray, are the Harvey-Brownes?' I asked again.

'The English people I told you about who had got on to my nerves. I
thought they'd have left by now.'

'And why were they on your nerves?'

'Oh she's a bishop's wife, and is about the narrowest person I have met,
so we're not likely to be anywhere but on each other's nerves. But she
adores that son of hers and would do anything in the world that pleases
him, and he pursues me.'

'Pursues you?' I cried, with an incredulousness that I immediately
perceived was rude. I hastened to correct it by shaking my head in
gentle reproof and saying: 'Dear me, Charlotte--dear, dear me.'
Simultaneously I was conscious of feeling disappointed in young
Harvey-Browne.

'What do you suppose he pursues me for?' Charlotte asked, turning her
head and looking at me.

'I can't think,' I was going to say, but stopped in time.

'The most absurd reason. He torments me with attentions because I am
Bernhard's wife. He is a hero-worshipper, and he says Bernhard is the
greatest man living.'

'Well, but isn't he?'

'He can't get hold of him, so he hovers round me, and talks Bernhard to
me for hours together. That's why I went to Thiessow. He was sending me
mad.'

'He hasn't an idea, poor innocent, that you don't--that you no
longer----'

'I have as much courage as other people, but I don't think there's
enough of it for explaining things to the mother. You see, she's the
wife of a bishop.'

Not being so well acquainted as Charlotte with the characteristics of
the wives of bishops I did not see; but she seemed to think it explained
everything.

'Doesn't she know about your writings?' I inquired.

'Oh yes, and she came to a lecture I gave at Oxford--the boy is at
Balliol--and she read some of the pamphlets. He made her.'

'Well?'

'Oh she made a few conventional remarks that showed me her limitations,
and then she