“Not compromise?” “I don’t think the compromise works.” “That I should live to hear any person of English blood blaspheme against compromise!” “Oh, I’m not all English. I’ve got some bits of Scotch and Irish tucked away somewhere.” “That proves you’re English. No other race ever boasts of being mongrel. I’m quite offensively English myself, because I’m one-sixteenth French, besides all the usual nationalities. So that compromise is in my blood. However. Should you catalogue me as a heart or a brain?” “Nobody,” said Harriet, “could deny your brain.” “Who denies of it? And you may deny my heart,
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