‘I do get so sick of beauty,’ Walter said. ‘Beauty is quite beside
the point.’
And then he laughed, for he saw Mr. Furze was laughing.
‘What do you think, Miss Woodruffe?’ he asked.
And I said:
‘Oh, I am afraid I like beautiful pots best, if there have got
to be pots at all.’
He looked at me oddly, with a troubled, perplexed expression.
‘I expect you think me a Philistine,’ he said. ‘I am too, I suppose.
All these shapes and designs and proportions that people keep
talking about—they just mean nothing to me. They seem to me so
_dull_—like rows of pretty faces with no souls.’
‘When old age shall this generation waste
Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe,’