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Not dull, she replied, hesitatingly. Then, with more than her
usual vehemence, Father, I can't endure him! I wish we didn't
have such men on our side! He is so flippant, so vulgar!
Of course he never was a model of refinement, said Raeburn, but
he is effective very effective. It is impossible that you should
like his style; he is, compared with you, what a theatrical poster
is to a delicate tetedegreuze. How did he specially offend you
tonight?
It was all hateful from the very beginning, said Erica. And
sprinkled all through with doubtful jests, which of course pleased
the people. One despicable one about the Entry into Jerusalem,
which I believe he must have got from Strauss. I'm sure Strauss
quotes it.
You see what displeases an educated mind, wins a rough, uncultured
one. We may not altogether like it, but we must put up with it.
We need our Moodys and Sankeys as well as the Christians.
But, father, he seems to me so unfair.
Raeburn looked grave.
My dear, he said, after a minute's thought, you are not in the
least bound to go to hear Mr. Masterman again unless you like. But
remember this, Eric, we are only a struggling minority, and let me
quote to you one of our Scottish proverbs: 'Hawks shouldna pick out
hawks' een.' You are still a hawk, are you not?
Of course, she said, earnestly.
Well, then be leal to your brother hawks.
A cloud of perplexed thought stole over Erica's face. Raeburn
noted it and did his best to divert her attention.
Come, he said, let us have a chapter of Mark Twain to enliven
us.
But even Mark Twain was inadequate to check the thoughtstruggle
which had begun in Erica's brain. Desperate earnestness would not
be conquered even by the most delightful of all humorous fiction.
During the next few days this thoughtstruggle raged. So great was
Erica's fear of having biased either one way or the other that she
would not even hint at her perplexity either to her father or to
Charles Osmond. And now the actual thoroughness of her character
seemed a hindrance.
She had imagination, quick perception of the true and beautiful,
and an immense amount of steady common sense. At the same time she
was almost as keen and quite as slow of conviction as her father.
Honestly dreading to allow her poetic faculty due play, she kept
her imagination rigidly within the narrowest bounds. She was thus
honestly handicapped in the race; the honesty was, however, a
little mistaken and onesided, for not the most vivid imagination
could be considered as a setoff to the great, the incalculable
counterinfluence of her whole education and surroundings. How she
got through that black struggle was sometimes a mystery to her. At

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