Margaret, of course, introduced them to each other, explaining, as Mr. Stevens thought, in a manner utterly unnecessary, that he was travelling down to Scotland to take care of her. But the brief words seemed only an interruption to the flow of talk. At first they both tried to bring him into the conversation, but in vain. He sat grimly in a corner, determined not to be won over by a good-looking young fellow of whom he knew nothing, and wondering at Margaret's glow of colour and animation. Once he heard a little laugh, and he looked up surprised he could make nothing of their conversation. Some one had written a book of poetry--but what could there be said about such nonsense? Any sane man who had something to say could surely say it in good honest prose.
"Do you like poetry," asked Sir Albert, suddenly turning to him pleasantly.
"No, I don't," Mr. Stevens answered with quite unnecessary shortness. "I never see the use of it."
"If useful things only were given to us here," said Margaret, gently, "our lives would be very dull."
"I have no poetry in my life, and I do not feel dull," he answered in a softer manner to her.
"Are you sure you have no poetry in your life?" asked Sir Albert, pleasantly--he was anxious to make friends with a man Margaret liked and respected.
"It is difficult to say where it comes into my life," said Mr. Stevens, more politely, melting a little under the influence of so pleasant a voice and manner. "I am manager in a manufactory, and work is the order of the day. Till we leave off and I go out home I never breathe the fresh air or see the sun shine."
"But they greet you, then," said Sir Albert, earnestly; "the play of the sunshine upon the river, the ripple of the brook, the endless stories found in every leaf and blossom, the song of the birds, all these sweet gifts are nature's poems given to make us better and wiser men, and happier ones too," he added in a lower voice.
"Put in that way," began Mr. Stevens; and then, a little ashamed of being influenced so soon by a man he had never seen before, he said more abruptly, "I think bringing sentiment into work is the ruin of every thing--what do we want with it? If we use our faculties, and work to the best of our ability, I conceive that is all that is expected of us. I think life is an easy enough problem, though philosophers try and make it out otherwise. We are given two paths, a right one and a wrong one; the right one is often difficult, the wrong one frequently pleasant; it is our own fault if we choose it, and it leads us to disaster."