The Philistines | Page 6

mind than abstract theories, and she was considering what he had told
her of Mrs. Greyson and Grant Herman, a sculptor for whom she had a
warm admiration, and a no less strong liking.
However we busy ourselves with high aims, with learning, or art, or
wisdom, or ethics, personal human interests appeal to us more strongly
than anything else. Human emotions respond instinctively and quickly
to any hint of the emotional life of others. Nothing more strikingly
shows the essential unity of the race than the readiness with which all
minds lay aside all concerns and ideas which they are accustomed to
consider higher, to give attention to the trifling details of the intimate
history of their fellows. Quite unconsciously, Edith had gathered up
many facts, insignificant in themselves, concerning the relations of Mrs.
Greyson and Herman, and she now found herself suddenly called upon
to reconsider whatever conclusions they had led her to in the light of
this new development. The sculptor's marriage with an ex-model had
always been a mystery to her, and she now endeavored to decide in her
mind whether it were possible that her husband could be right in
putting the responsibility upon Helen Greyson. The form of his remark
seemed to her to hint that the Italian's claim upon Herman had been of
so grave a nature as to imply serious complications in their former
relations; but she strenuously rejected any suspicion of evil in the
sculptor's conduct.
"I am sure, Arthur," she said, hesitatingly, "there can have been nothing
wrong between Mr. Herman and Ninitta. I have too much faith in him."
"To put faith in man," was his answer, "is only less foolish than to
believe in woman. I didn't, however, mean to imply anything very
dreadful. The facts are enough, without speculating on what is nobody's
business but theirs. I wonder how he and Helen will get on together,
now she is coming home? Mrs. Herman is a jealous little thing, and
could easily be roused up to do mischief."
"I do not believe Helen had anything to do with their marriage," Edith
said, with conviction. "It was a mistake from the outset."
"Granted. That is what makes it so probable that Helen did it. Grant
isn't the man to make a fool of himself without outside pressure, and in
the end a sacrifice to principle is always some ridiculous tomfoolery

that can't be come at in any other way. However, we shall see what we
shall see. What time are you going to Mrs. Frostwinch's?"
"I am going to the Browning Club at Mrs. Gore's first. Will you come?"
"Thank you, no. I have too much respect for Browning to assist at his
dismemberment. I'll meet you at Mrs. Frostwinch's about ten."

III
IN WAY OF TASTE. Troilus and Cressida; iii.--3.
One of the most curious of modern whims in Boston has been the study
of the poems of Robert Browning. All at once there sprang up on every
hand strange societies called Browning Clubs, and the libraries were
ransacked for Browning's works, and for the books of whoever has had
the conceit or the hardihood to write about the great poet. Lovely girls
at afternoon receptions propounded to each other abstruse conundrums
concerning what they were pleased to regard as obscure passages, while
little coteries gathered, with airs of supernatural gravity, to read and
discuss whatever bore his signature.
A genuine, serious Boston Browning Club is as deliciously droll as any
form of entertainment ever devised, provided one's sense of the
ludicrous be strong enough to overcome the natural indignation aroused
by seeing genuine poetry, the high gift of the gods, thus abused. The
clubs meet in richly furnished parlors, of which the chief fault is
usually an over-abundance of bric-a-brac. The house of Mrs. Gore, for
instance, where Edith was going this evening, was all that money could
make it; and in passing it may be noted that Boston clubs are seldom of
constitutions sufficiently vigorous to endure unpleasant surroundings.
The fair sex predominates at all these gatherings, and over them hangs
an air of expectant solemnity, as if the celebration of some sacred
mystery were forward. Conversation is carried on in subdued tones;
even the laughter is softened, and when the reader takes his seat, there
falls upon the little company a hush so deep as to render distinctly
audible the frou-frou of silken folds, and the tinkle of jet fringes, stirred
by the swelling of ardent and aspiring bosoms.
The reading is not infrequently a little dull, especially to the uninitiated,
and there have not been wanting certain sinister suggestions that now
and then, during the monotonous delivery of some of the longer poems,
elderly and corpulent devotees listen only with the spiritual ear, the

physical