With Edged Tools by Henry Seton Merriman, Fiction

"My dear -- Madam -- what you call heart does not come into the question at all." Sir John Meredith was sitting slightly behind Lady Cantourne, leaning towards her with a somewhat stiffened replica of his former grace. But he was not looking at her -- and she knew it. They were both watching a group at the other side of the great ballroom. "Sir John Meredith on Heart," said the old lady, with a depth of significance in her voice. "And why not?" "Yes, indeed. Why not?" Sir John smiled with that well-bred cynicism which a new school has not yet succeeded in imitating. They were of the old school, these two; and their worldliness, their cynicism, their conversational attitude, belonged to a bygone period. It was a cleaner period in some ways -- a period devoid of slums. Ours, on the contrary, is an age of slums wherein we all dabble to the detriment of our hands -- mental, literary, and theological. . . .