Love,—and the Philosopher: A Study in Sentiment

or—

She spoke the exquisite lines with a delicious intonation of feeling, and the Philosopher nodded his head to and fro with the rhythm of the blank verse like a Chinese mandarin.

“Very good!” he said. “I notice you are fond of declamation. You should study for the stage.”

A flush swept over her features,—she was indignant, but refrained from any outward expression of her thoughts.

“Thank you!” she said, curtly.

The Philosopher felt that he had somehow stumbled into a mistake. His remark was evidently not of a kind that was pleasing to the Sentimentalist. But, like all self-centred, self-opiniated men, he went a little further into the quagmire.

“My remark was meant as a compliment,” he explained, laboriously. “Actresses are the only really successful women nowadays. They are petted and praised and their touched-up glorified portraits are in all the weekly journals—”

“Do you call that success?” she interrupted him, in coolly contemptuous tones. “Or even simple womanliness?”

He laughed quite pleasantly.

“You really are a very quaint child!” he said. “Simple womanliness! All that sort of thing went out with the second half of the reign of Victoria. I was going to say it is as extinct as the Dodo,—but that has been said before—to give it a smack of originality, let me assure you it is as extinct as Benson’s Dodo.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, still coldly. “You are too clever for me.”

He took her hand and patted it condescendingly.

“Let us leave it at that!” he said. “We’ll go and look at the roses! And the bees! ‘How doth the little busy bee’! You know the verse? And do you also know it is a much more familiar ‘poem’ to the public than the ‘Paradise Lost’? You do know that? Good! Then you are a sensible girl! And we can wait for the newspapers to fall into cackles of contradictory rumour before we believe in the war,—and for Mr. and Mrs. Montagu to come forward as a married couple before we believe in love!”

He smiled,—for a Philosopher he had quite an attractive smile,—and now and then he had a curious passing tenderness of manner that never failed to make an impression on the hearts of credulous and sympathetic women. The Sentimentalist began to think she had judged him rather hastily and hardly,—he read her thoughts in the wistful expression of her upturned blue eyes, and straightway responded by adopting for himself a quietly resigned and patient air. She grew more and more self-reproachful,—he more and more bland and condescending, and by the time they had reached the rose-walk she was in the position of a charming penitent, though she had committed no fault; and he had assumed the kindly manner of a father confessor who had just granted absolution. He pulled his black and corroded pipe from his pocket.

“I may smoke?” he queried, half coaxingly.

She nodded,—and yet she could not help wondering why he wanted to smoke just as they reached the lovely trellis work of roses that clambered and twined, and hung down their graceful heads laden with delicious perfume. The moment the fumes of tobacco were puffed into the air, all the sweetness of the exquisite blossoms would be spoilt; but she made no protest, and stood silently watching him at his old trick of prodding the “Navy-cut” into the bowl of his briar with the usual yellow finger. And she did not conceal from herself that it was an ugly performance. In due time and after some fidgeting, the pipe was lit, and the natural sweet incense of the roses was smothered by the smoke which the Philosopher emitted like a human chimney. He had the habit of opening his mouth in a studied round O, in order to make “rings” of smoke in the air as he puffed away,—it was not a habit that became him, but he was fortunately not aware of the satyr-like aspect he presented while engaged in what he considered artistry in smoking.

“Now,” he said, comfortably, after having successfully accomplished several “rings,”—“let’s talk! What does your father say of this morning’s news?”

“Dad! Oh, he isn’t at all surprised. He says it is what we all ought to have seen coming years ago, and that the country should have been prepared.”

“Oh, most sagacious Dad! Why isn’t he Prime Minister! Of course we knew!—of course every body knew!” And the Philosopher gave a short, grunting laugh. “Especially a good old gentleman living in the country and passing his time between dictionaries and cucumber-frames! If he didn’t know, who should? ‘Who dies if England lives!’ By the way what a piece of utter nonsense that is! The world would get on very well without England!”

She gave a little cry.

“Oh, how can you say so! And you an Englishman!”

“Dear child, my nationality is a mere accident of birth. I might just as well have been a kangaroo! Chance gave me English parents—and I’m not ungrateful to chance. But simply because I’m an Englishman, born in England, I’m not such a fool as to suppose my country the only respectable one in the world.”

“It’s the greatest, the noblest, the most glorious!” she said, her breast heaving and her eyes flashing. “I would die for it to-morrow if I were a man!”

He smiled.

“What’s the good of dying for it?” he queried. “Much better to live for it, and do useful work for it! Surely you agree? Suppose you—or I—or any one—dies for it—you or I or that ‘any one’ must become absolutely useless,—a mere lump of dead matter, burnt or buried and forgotten in a week! What does England gain by that? Dear child, do be reasonable! England is a charming country, and if any of us who are alive to-day can assist in adding to its charm by either our talents or our personalities, so much the better. But to die for it!—just think, by way of example, how much grace your presence gives to this garden!—a presence which, if removed, it would be difficult to replace!”

His eyes twinkled humorously,—and she hardly knew whether to be flattered or annoyed.

“If the news of the coming war be true,” she said, “many presences will be removed, never to be replaced.”

“True!” he replied. “Unquestionably true! But the removal of a considerable majority of useless persons is not so much a loss as a gain to the world. I speak from the logical and philosophic standpoint. I do not suppose the world at large is very much the worse for the destruction of Pompeii, for example. It does not appear that any one of particular note or service in the city had enough of high or singular reputation to make his loss a lasting memorial of fame. See here!” and taking her gently by the arm he stopped at an ant-hill raised in the grass path along which they strolled. “There’s a busy world! Look at the little brown citizens scampering here and there on the chief business of life, eating and breeding! Now for an eruption of Vesuvius!”—and he struck a fusee from a small box he carried, and flung it alight on the ant-hill. “What a scrimmage! What heroic deaths! Look well!—” and, as she stooped, watching the insect tragedy with keen interest and pity,—“You occupy for the moment the position of a fair goddess uplifted above the tortures of a race of beings with whom you have no concern. You can see three or four brave warriors endeavouring to drag the fusee out of the vortex in which it burns,—Horatius keeping the bridge was never more heroic than they! They go to certain death—those that perish are instantly replaced by others equally brave. Well!” and he smiled as she raised her beautiful, blue, limpid eyes to his in questioning wonder—“You look as though you asked for a meaning—it is simply that my fusee was as an eruption of Vesuvius to this particular ant-Pompeii,—and if, as the newspapers say, there is going to be a war with Germany you may take it that God, or Fate, or whatever you choose to call Natural Law, is merely flinging a fusee into an ant-hill.”

“Then you think human beings no more valuable than ants?” she demanded, half angrily.

“Less valuable sometimes,” he responded placidly. “When they are greasy multi-millionaires I give the preference to respectable ants. Every one has different tastes of course—but personally, speaking for myself alone, I would rather be an ant than a millionaire grocer.”

She laughed,—she found him thoroughly amusing,—and—yes!—he was certainly cleverer and more entertaining than Jack! He watched her, admiring with an artist’s eye the flecks of gold hair against the whiteness of her neck. He took one or two puffs at his pipe.

“I like to hear you laugh!” he said. “You do it prettily!”

She gave him a quaint little curtsey.

“Thanks!”

“It’s not a compliment,” he went on, “so thanks are superfluous. You are at your best in a pleasant humour. You have a charming smile and a fascinating manner—when you are good! But when you are put out, you look quite different—and you lose your charm.”

“That is the case with everybody,” she said.

“Not always. Some women look their best in a passion. Flashing eyes, dishevelled hair, and general tantrums, make them diabolically beautiful. But you, with your dove-like glance and soft bright hair are of the elfin type—and I believe—if fairy tales are true!—that elves are never angry.”

She looked at him and smiled. He was in his kindliest, most attractive mood, and when he allowed himself the relaxation of perfect good temper, he could be almost lovable.

“Elves,” he repeated, “are never angry. They are full of pranks and wiles, but they are never unkind to their friends—”

“I am not unkind!” she interrupted quickly.

“Dear child, I never said you were! But your incorrigible sentiment makes you hasty in judgment—quick to condemn. I’m quite sure you think me a sort of masked traitor because I fail to see any virtue in dying for England, and prefer to live for her. I’m equally positive you have your doubts as to my sense of common humanity because I say and because I mean that a very large number of people would be better out of the world than in it. And so you misunderstand me. Your Jack now—”

“He’s not ‘my’ Jack,” she interposed, swiftly.

“Well, he’d like to be,” retorted the Philosopher. “And of course he’d ‘die’ for England—no!—for ‘America and the Old Glory!’—Delightful bunkum! He’s all nobleness, patriotism, enthusiasm and heart! A nice boy—quite a nice boy,—but insufferably dull!”

She was silent.

“Dulness,” pursued the Philosopher, “is the only unforgivable sin. Now you cannot say I am dull!”

She peeped at him from under the brim of her hat,—an answer was on her lips, but she would not utter it.

“I amuse you,” he went on. “I make you laugh! That is a great thing! Isn’t it?”

She nodded, smilingly.

“I have,” went on the Philosopher, complacently, “an original turn of mind. I say things in an original manner. People quote my remarks as being new and funny. It’s a great help in social life to have a man among your friends who may be relied upon to speak in a way which no one else can imitate. It ‘lifts’ conversation. Don’t you agree with me?”

Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Well, I’m not sure!” she said. “There are some clever men who can be duller than very stupid ones,—though of course they always think themselves amusing. They tell the same stories over and over again—the same old jokes and witticisms,—and it is very difficult to listen to, them patiently and smile as if you were pleased, when really you’re bored!”

He nodded his head.

“True!—very true! I have met many such men. I always avoid them when I can. But the moral of the whole thing is that one should know as few people as possible and never keep up with those few longer than a month or six weeks.”

She gave him an astonished look.

“Why, then we should have no friends!” she exclaimed.

He smiled indulgently.

“Have we any friends anyhow?” he asked. “What are ‘friends’? Are they not dear sweet people who abuse you behind your back and take an inward deep pleasure in hearing of your faults and misfortunes? The friends of your youth for example? I’m not speaking personally of you, for you are still young—but if you have any so-called ‘friends’ now, and they and you live a few years longer, you’ll have these dear creatures coming along and saying, ‘Really, is it you? I shouldn’t have known you! Why it’s years and years since I saw you!—ages!’—despite the fact that it may be only five summers since you last met. But the expression ‘years and years’ and ‘ages’ is used to let you feel how old you have grown since then; I know the kind of thing I tell you! And I have always made it my business to forget schoolfellows and college companions,—drop them altogether. I don’t want their ‘reminiscences’ and I’m sure they don’t want mine. The secret of happiness in this world is to forget as you go along. Forget the past, live in the present, and don’t worry about the future.”

She was silent. And she kept silence so long that he had time to finish his pipe, knock out its ashes against a tree, and put it in his pocket. Then he looked sideways at her, and saw that the winsome face was sad. Without ceremony he took her arm, and walked on past all the roses to a smooth stretch of greensward beyond.

“You see,” he resumed gently, “we are only on this interesting planet for a short time, and it seems common sense—to me at least—that we should endeavour to make that time as pleasant as possible. If we hold on to friends who knew us as children we find them as changed as we ourselves are changed, and that isn’t pleasant. Therefore, why expose ourselves to the shock? No greater mistake was ever made by the human being—than to keep up his so-called ‘friends.’ It costs money and wastes time—”

She lifted her head quickly.

“Then if you think love a mistake and friendship a bore, can you tell what life is worth?” she asked.

“Dear elfin lady, I can! Life is worth living on account of the various agreeable sensations it provides. It is all ‘sensation’—not sentiment! Love is a ‘sensation’—a violent one—an attraction between two persons of opposite sex which is quite exhilarating and inspiring—for a short time. During that short time it has been known to move poets to their best efforts—though as a rule these individuals write their rhymes to the ‘sensation’—not to the person they imagine they adore. Friendship is also a ‘sensation,’—the feeling that one had found one’s ‘sympathy’—one’s alter ego—a most misleading idea as a rule. But any ‘sensation’ is for the moment agreeable, provided it is not physically painful—and these varying sensations are the sum bonum of life.”

She sighed.

“I do not like your outlook,” she said. “It makes everything seem so contemptible and worthless.”

He gave an airy gesture with his disengaged hand.

“What would you! Everything is contemptible and worthless, considered from the strictly philosophical standpoint. Civilisations, like men, are only born to die and be forgotten,—we trouble ourselves uselessly in efforts to keep them alive after their appointed span. Certain races attain to a high state of education and then begin to degenerate and hark back to the old roots of savagery—”

“And what do you argue from all this?” she demanded.

“Why, that we should enjoy the present hour as I am doing,” he replied, smiling agreeably. “And repel the symptoms of degeneracy in ourselves and others as forcibly as we can!”

She sighed again, and pausing, withdrew her arm from his.

“Poor, pretty, elfin lady!” he said kindly. “You do not like my way of looking at the world!”

“No! Most certainly not!” she answered, quickly. “If one thought the things you say, one would commit suicide!”

“Oh, no, one wouldn’t!” and he smiled. “Not as long as”—here he looked about him—“not as long as a butterfly exists!”—and he pointed to one just settling on a spray of clematis—“or a pretty woman!”

She moved on without a word, and he felt for his pipe in his pocket. She looked back over her shoulder.

“I am going indoors,” she called. “Do you want anything before I go?”

He took a couple of leisurely strides and came up again beside her.

“No—I have my ‘notes’ and a pencil—simple things, but they suffice! And you can leave me the newspaper—its news is false, its English detestable and its self-advertisement appalling—like all the rest of its class—but a printed Ananias always amuses me—I only regret it does not fall dead like its mythical prototype!”

She had been holding the newspaper in one hand—she now gave it him with a little wistful upward glance that somehow hurt him and made him feel uncomfortable. He realised that his ‘philosophy’ had cast a yellow fog on the sunny brightness of her day. He took her hand, looked at its dimpled whiteness critically and then gravely kissed it.

“Cheer up!” he said. “It’s a nice little world—and—you’ve got a pretty little hand! It makes life worth living—or it ought to!—for you. And also for me.”

She laughed softly.

“Oh, how absurd you are!” she said. “I don’t think you mean half you say!”

“Probably not!” he answered, mildly. “It is a very abstruse problem for a man to find out exactly what he means. I doubt if any man has ever done it—not even old Socrates. And I’m not Socrates—”

“No, indeed!” she interrupted him. “You are—you are—”

“Diogenes?” he suggested.

She laughed again, nodded and ran off.

CHAPTER VI

THE ensuing weeks proved to the Philosopher beyond a doubt that so far as the war news was concerned it was not “twaddle.” Needless to recapitulate all the cruel and terrible happenings which are burned deep into the nation’s brain, and graven ineffaceably on the recording stone of History,—and the details of such lives lived like that of the Philosopher, out of the reach of the enemy’s fire, hardly deserve to be chronicled at all save for the curious fact that despite “battle, murder and sudden death” these lives go on more or less placidly, unmoved by good or ill report of what does not immediately concern themselves. Like the old farmer pictured in “Punch” whose wife warned a visitor not to speak of the war, “Cos ’e don’t bleeve there ain’t no war,” so the Philosopher pursued the even tenor of his way, spending more and longer time in the country, especially after “raids” began to affect London’s social equanimity. He plunged deeper and deeper into labyrinths of forgotten languages, delving for the “root” of this word and the “branches” of that,—and taking care to delight his host (who daily became more gouty and irritable) with the patience of his research and the “flattering unction” he applied to the self-satisfaction of the good old gentleman, who firmly believed that his great work—“The Deterioriation of Language Invariably Perceived as a Precursor to the Decadence of Civilisation” was destined to reform the world. His pet theory was that if the language of a people could be preserved in pristine purity and elegance of speech, without the introduction of slang or flippant abbreviations, it would go a long way to check degeneration and decay. There was no doubt something in it;—as the Philosopher once sagely remarked, “there is always something in everything,”—but it was a something not likely to appeal to the average understanding. Anyway he was happy in his old age, pursuing a fox of a word through the brushwood of centuries with hounds of argument, urged on by the Philosopher,—and as long as they two could sit turning over dictionaries and comparing notes, they paid little heed to the Great War raging across Channel except as an echo of distant thunder. With the pretty Sentimentalist it was different. She busied herself with a thousand things. Punctiliously careful of her father’s household, and attentive to all his wishes and caprices, she nevertheless found time to help all sorts of “war charities,”—and as soon as she heard of a V.A.D. hospital being started in the neighbourhood she offered her services for so many hours each day,—services which were readily accepted. The “Commandant,” a sour, stern, old, county lady with more wrinkles than hairs, set her to do the dirtiest and most repulsive sort of work, for several cogent reasons—first, because she was pretty,—secondly, because her hands were white and well-kept, and as the “county” dame remarked, with an impressive sniff to herself, “Do her good to get them roughened a bit”—and thirdly, because she was a sensitive creature, and ugly sights and smells made her sick. But she was quite docile and obedient, and did all she was told to do with a patient sweetness which might have softened any heart but that of the V.A.D. “commandant” whose life-organ had apparently become tanned and hardened into a species of human leather. She never told her father or his friend the Philosopher anything about her hospital duties,—nor did they in their complete self-absorption notice that she looked frail and tired in the evenings.

“Women must have something to do,” said the Philosopher, comfortably. “And it amuses them to go fussing over wounded men and putting bandages on broken heads and limbs—it saves them,—saves them, I do assure you! That V.A.D. hospital is a perfect godsend to the women of this neighbourhood—gives them a fresh interest in life and stops their horrible “bridge” for a time. To wipe the fevered manly brow and comb the manly hair gives them a thrill of delightful excitement—it’s something new; and the plainest old spectacled harridan that ever lived likes to be called ‘Sister’ by a smart boy of twenty. Yes! the V.A.D. is a boon and a blessing!—it serves a double purpose: sick-nursing and matrimony. The blacksmith’s anvil at Gretna Green is not in it with a bed in a convalescent ward, and a good-looking ‘sister’ about.”

His gouty host grumbled assent—the Sentimentalist listened without comment. When the Philosopher talked in this sort of way she always felt herself removed very far from him,—she realised, with a little sense of pain that he and she had nothing in common. She had an appreciation of what she imagined to be his “cleverness,” but she also had a keen consciousness that he merely tolerated what he considered her stupidity under the guise of “sentiment.”

One day on her way back from her work at the V.A.D. she met Jack. She had not seen him for some time, and had lately wondered what kept him so long away, but the moment she saw him she knew. He was in khaki,—and very smart and well set up he looked. Yet there was an expression in his handsome young face that altered it somehow—and her heart beat a little more quickly as she held out her hand to him with a pleased utterance of his name:

“Jack!”

He smiled tenderly into her uplifted eyes.

“Yes, it’s me!” he said. “I’ve joined up. I had to. I couldn’t rest day or night till I did.”

“But—but you are an American!” she exclaimed.

“Yes. But I’m a man too, I hope! I couldn’t see all the brave blood of Britain starting to kill the Hun Dragon without wanting to be a bit of St. George myself. And America will be in the tussle presently. That’s what I’ve told the old man—my father—and though I’m his only hopeful (or hopeless!) he lets me go. I meant to see you somehow before training. But I never get you alone for five minutes in the house. Let’s have a stroll by the river.”

She turned, and walked slowly beside him, through a swing gate and along a little side path just wide enough for two, which meandered across a wide field to the water’s edge. It was full autumn—indeed verging on winter,—the trees were almost leafless and a chill wind blew through their branches. The river, so full of charm in the sunshine, had a dull glassy glare of cold grey on its surface and a tiny shiver ran through the veins of the Sentimentalist as she looked around her at the dreariness of the landscape which had been so fair and sunshiny in the spring.

“I hear you’ve been working at the V.A.D.,” he said, then, “Don’t you tire yourself! I won’t have it!”

She smiled, but the tears were very near her eyes.

“Won’t you?”

“No, I won’t,” he repeated, emphatically. “Where’s that old Philosopher of yours?”

“Oh, he’s at home, working at the dictionaries with Dad, as usual. He likes being here—you see it’s not very nice in London just now.”

“It’s never nice in my opinion,” replied Jack. “But if you mean air-raids and that sort of thing I rather like them! I think it’s what London wants. I shouldn’t mind if the whole place were bombed to smithereens!”

“Jack!”

He laughed at her horrified tone.

“Dear little ‘rose-lady,’ you mustn’t be cross with me! You don’t know London—I do! It’s a regular muck-heap—wants clearing badly. And cleared it will have to be before this war finishes. If it hadn’t been for muck-heap London, and muck-heap Berlin and other big cities like them, full of filth we should have had no war, at all. That’s so!”

He spoke with a kind of repressed passion—she looked up at him wonderingly and timidly. He met her sweet eyes, and his stern young face relaxed.

“Yes, dear!” he said. “It’s wickedness that has brought the war on us—wickedness in men, wickedness in women. The Supreme Being is tired of looking at the muck-heaps. He wants a clean world. And we’ve all got to help Him clean it!—with our blood and our lives!”

Timidly she put out her hand and touched his. He caught it and held it in a warm, kind grasp.

“I shan’t be sent out to France yet,” he went on. “I’ve got to be drilled into shape. And I mean to see you as often as I can before I go. Do you mind?”

“Mind? Why, of course not! I shall want to see you as much as you want to see me!”

Jack smiled.

“Oh, no, you won’t!” he said. “Though it’s nice of you to say it. But you can’t really!—because you see I’m in love with you, and you’re not in love with me!”

She drooped her head.

“I’m not in love with any one,” she murmured. “I don’t know how it is—”

“I know!” and Jack nodded his head sagaciously: “You can’t make up your mind as to whether a man’s company for life would be possible of endurance! I don’t blame you for the doubt—not a bit! But, if you are hesitating I can tell you you’d have a cheerier time of it with me than with your crusty old Philosopher!”

She laughed.

“Oh, Jack! I never think of the Philosopher that way! I wouldn’t marry him for all the world!”

“Well, that’s a comfort,” and Jack drew a long breath of relief. “That’s a real balm in Gilead! But he’ll want to marry you, you take my word for it! And when I’m gone he’ll have a clear field!”

She raised her eyes rather reproachfully.

“Then you don’t believe me’?”

“Yes, I do—of course I do!” and Jack pressed hard the little hand he held. “But I’ve got a bit of imagination, fool though I am! I see a thousand possibilities—your Dad may die—and then you’ll be all alone—and Mr. Philosopher will step in to ‘protect and console the only child of his dear dead friend!’—ugh!—I can hear him saying it!—and I shall be the Lord knows where!—and you—you are such a dainty little ‘rose-lady’ with such docile, obedient ways—”

She flashed a sudden look at him.

“You don’t know me well enough!” she said. “I’ve got a will of my own!”

“Have you?” and Jack smiled indulgently. “Well! I hope you have! And that you’ll say ‘No’ very firmly when Mr. Philosopher comes round after you and your fortune—there!—don’t look so surprised!—I heard him say he knew your father would leave you a big fortune!”

“Me?” and the astonishment was openly genuine. “Oh, Jack, you must be dreaming! Dad isn’t rich at all—he always tells me he has the greatest difficulty to make both ends meet!”

Jack laughed joyously.

“Jolly old dodger!” he said, irreverently. “But never mind! I daresay he’s right!—he’s like my father who swears he’s obliged to live down here in the country with one manservant to look after him in his fishing cottage by the river, because he can’t afford to live anywhere else! And yet I’ve heard—but after all it’s only silly rumour.”

“What is?” she enquired.

“Why, I’ve heard he’s as rich as Crœsus—but I’m sure it can’t be true, for ever since my mother died when I was a little chap of ten, we’ve always been pretty hard up.”

“But you went to college?” she said. “And you travelled abroad with a ‘crack’ tutor?”

“Oh, yes!—all that! Nothing grudged so far as my training has gone. But no superfluous cash about. And now I shan’t want anything from anybody once I’m in the Army. I shall be clothed and fed and have my pay for pocket-money! Jolly! Don’t you congratulate me?”

She looked full at him, frankly and sweetly.

“Yes, I do congratulate you!” she said. “I congratulate you on the right spirit you show, to voluntarily offer yourself to fight in the great Cause! Personally I hate the very thought of War,—it seems to me criminal, barbarous and a kind of God’s curse on the world—but if the battle is for good then all good men should join in it. I shall miss you dreadfully—”

She broke off—and a soft dew filled her pretty eyes. Jack saw,—and his heart gave a quick bound. He raised the little hand that rested so contentedly in his own and kissed it with the utmost tenderness.

“That’s enough for me!” he said. “‘I fear no foe in shining armour!’ But do take care of yourself! Don’t muck about with the V.A.D. Hospital under the orders of that virulent old dowager who has made herself ‘commandant’! If you must do that sort of thing, why not train for a real Army nurse?”

“I must not leave Dad,” she said simply. “He has only me.”

“And the Philosopher!” added Jack. “And the Deterioration of Language Invariably Perceived!”

They both laughed merrily, and the conversation became lighter and more playful. Before they parted the Sentimentalist had given him her promise that she would not become engaged to any one without giving Jack fair warning of his impending doom. And that in the meantime she would write to him once a week wherever he might happen to be, and would think of him often and kindly.

“And when you say your prayers,” he pleaded, gently, “don’t leave me out!”

“Why, Jack! Of course not!”

He looked meditative.

“I know a fat Scotchwoman,” he said, “who makes it a rule to put people into her prayers when they please her, and to take them out again when they don’t! Her husband was taken ill at a friend’s house and couldn’t be moved, and the friend nursed him tenderly, sent for a specialist and paid him fifty guineas out of her own pocket, besides spending no end of money on invalid food and luxuries,—and after the husband was cured and returned home, this same fat Scotchwoman had a slight difference with this very same loyal and devoted friend and promptly left her name out of her prayers! There’s heavenly thoughts for you! I always think she got up a grudge because her husband was cured! He was a gruff old customer, and rather a drawback to ‘home, sweet home.’ But that’s a true story!”

“Let’s hope it’s an exceptional one!” and she smiled. “No ‘slight difference’ could make me leave you out of my prayers!”

“Bless you, dear little rose-lady!” he said, fervently. “These are not King Arthur times or I should ask you for a glove or a ribbon to wear in my ‘helmet’ though it’s only a khaki cap—but—”

“Will you have this?” and unfastening a small brooch in the shape of a heart, where it held a chain in place round her neck, she gave it to him. “It’s quite small—you can tuck it in under the band and no one will ever see it—”

He was almost speechless with delight. Taking the little gold trifle he at once fastened it in his cap, secretly and securely.

“My ‘mascot’!” he said, triumphantly. “It will mean—ah!—you don’t know what it will mean to me! Everything in life!”

“Sentimental Jack!” and she smiled. “The Philosopher calls me ‘sentimental’—but you are more so than I!”

“Never mind what the Philosopher calls you,” responded Jack. “Just think for a moment if you please of what I call you—the dearest, sweetest ‘rose’ lady in the world!”

A lovely colour suffused her fair face—a true “rose” blush,—but she passed over the endearing compliment with a light gesture of dissent, and as they had unconsciously walked further along the bank of the river than they had at first intended, they turned and retraced their steps back to the open road. Here they shook hands and parted.

“You’ll hear from me very soon!” said Jack as he went, and he lifted his cap and waved it in light adieu.

She watched his agile figure swinging along till it disappeared,—then walking rather slowly herself, entered her own home in thoughtful mood. On the threshold she met the Philosopher. His face wore a grim and saturnine expression.

“Well!” and the exclamation sounded something like a snort. “Have you done playing with wounded soldiers for to-day?”

She looked him full in the eyes.

“Yes,” she replied. He was rather taken aback. He had not expected so simple an affirmative. She moved on to pass him by.

“Wait a moment,” he said. “Do you think you are really useful at that V.A.D. place?”

“I try to be,” she answered. “None of us can do very much in cases of great suffering, but every little helps.”

“Delightful platitudes!” and the Philosopher gave another snort. “Personally, I think you are much more useful at home. Your father is not very well this afternoon and has been asking for you. I left him on the sofa in the library. He seems very irritable. I’m going for a walk.”

He strolled off, pausing a moment or two to light his pipe, and she hurried to the library where she found her father on the sofa as the Philosopher had said, in a state of highly nervous irritation brought on by the gout.

“Where have you been?” he wailed, as he saw her. “Down at that d—d hospital again? God bless my soul, what sort of a daughter are you to neglect your poor old father for those miserable Tommies! All ne’er-do-wells I’ll swear!—they would have been ‘on the road’ picking and stealing and up to all sorts of mischief if they hadn’t gone into the Army! And now you must dance attendance on them as if they were your own flesh and blood—” Here he broke off with a sharp cry, wrung from him by a twinge in his gouty toe.

“Poor Dad, I didn’t know you weren’t feeling well,” she said, tenderly. “If I had I wouldn’t have gone—you know I wouldn’t! But there’s nothing to be done for the gout, dear, is there?—you must rest—and have the medicine the doctor ordered—”

“I don’t know where it is,” he growled. “The bottle has been carefully put where it can’t be found!”

She smiled, with a gently breathed, “Oh, no, it hasn’t!” and opening a cupboard by the fireplace, produced the desired palliative. He watched her pour the measured dose into a wine-glass, and took it with a puckered face like a naughty child.

“Horrid stuff!” he said, peevishly. “How do your Tommies take their medicine?”

She laughed.

“Quite nicely!—like good little boys!” she answered. “And they are so cheerful and patient! Some of the very bad cases are the most enduring. Oh!—if you could only see one poor fellow—”

“I don’t want to see him!” growled her father. “And I don’t want to hear about him! I’m worried out of my life by stories of these ‘poor fellows’ who make the ‘supreme sacrifice’ for their country,—hang it all! the ‘supreme sacrifice’ has got to be made by all of us some day anyhow—and the men who make it before their naturally allotted span would no doubt have wasted their lives in idleness and drink!”

Her eyes filled with a gentle reproach.

“Oh, dear Dad!—you talk like the Philosopher! Don’t get as callous as he is!”

“He’s not callous,” snapped out the old gentleman. “And you’re a silly little flibbertigibbet! Callous indeed! Why he’s full of feeling! He’s not sentimental—and a good job too!—but he’s reasonable and—and kind.”

“If he’s kind to you, that’s enough!” she said, smiling. “But I don’t think he pays much attention to the war, and he never realises the awful sufferings of the men who are fighting for us—”

“Why should he? God bless my soul! Why should a learned and brilliant scholar bother to ‘realise’ what these fighting fools are about? He’s got something else to do—”

“The Dictionary!” she hinted, smiling.

“Well, that’s one thing certainly. And I tell you what—ah!—you may look surprised!—but if my ideas were carried out, and language—language, I say!—preserved in refined forms, and no newspaper slang allowed, there would be no wars!—there couldn’t be!”

The smile was still on her lips.

“Dear Dad, I daresay you are quite right!” she said. “But I’m afraid it’s too late now to preserve what is lost. Elegant speech and graceful manners are very rare.”

“Glad you know it!” and her father made another grimace as his burning toe asserted its existence afresh. “You’ll appreciate my work when you see it!”

“I’m sure I shall!” She hesitated,—then added irrelevantly:

“Jack has joined up.”

“Best thing he could do! He was always idling about, with no aim in life as far as I could see—one of those stupid young men who want licking into shape!”

She made no reply. Moving quietly about the room she put things tidy and stirred the fire into a more cheerful blaze—then, seeing her father had closed his eyes in preparation for a doze she slipped away. In the outer hall she met the parlour-maid,—generally a trim, tidy little body, but now with roughened hair and swollen eyes, crying bitterly.

“Why, Annie! What’s the matter?”

The girl gave a great sob.

“My only brother, miss—he’s killed!”

Killed! The word sounded butcher-like.

“Killed! How awful! Oh, you poor girl! I’m so sorry for you!”

Annie turned away her face and went, still weeping,—comfort there is none in sudden bereavement, and to offer it is only intrusive. The gentle little Sentimentalist felt this to the very core of her responsive soul,—and her usually light step was slow and sad as she entered her own special little sitting-room and looked out on the smooth lawn and the flower-beds encircling it, brilliant just now with goldenrod, dahlias, dwarf sunflowers and other glories of autumnal bloom.

“I’m not in love with him a bit!” she murmured to the silence. “But ... yes!—I’m sure I should almost break my heart if Jack were killed!”

CHAPTER VII

“And I am a unique person,” he said to himself. “I have humour and originality—both qualities are worth more than gold. I make no charge for my jokes—I ask no fee for being amusing, though I really ought to do so. In the dulness created by average brains I am a kind of luminary; and if I stay on here—avoiding the November fogs in London—I give as much as I take—in fact more,—for if they feed me materially I feed them intellectually!”

Truth to tell the Philosopher was pre-eminently known as what is called a “sponge.” From his boyhood up he had always been paid for by other people. Why this was so no one could tell. But so it was. He was not a bread-winner. He had written a few books—books that resembled ancient Brazil nuts, very hard to open, and very dried-up inside—books that he wrote entirely for his own satisfaction, though for nobody else’s pleasure. Naturally the books did not sell,—but according to his view and that of many other unsuccessful dabblers in literature, that only proved their brilliancy and excellence. The oft-quoted and worn-out phrase, “The public is a hass,” expressed his opinion of that great majority whose approval every man of note, whether in literature or politics, is eager to win while openly denying its value,—and on one occasion when an old college friend remarked:

“Nobody knows you ever wrote anything and nobody cares!” he accepted the crushing statement with a bland smile and nod of acquiescence.

“Do I expect any one to know or to care?” he demanded. “Do I ask for the undiscriminating applause of the vulgar? Do I write stories about silly young women who fall in love with their guardians, and then when they are married, elope with actors and stable-men? Do I take up the rag remains of the ‘sex question’ and tear it into fresh shreds? No! Then how is it possible the man or woman ‘in the street’ should appreciate me? As well ask them to appreciate the Elgin marbles or the Parthenon! I assure you I am perfectly satisfied to be as I am—unknown and uncared for.”

The college friend looked sceptical.

“Then what’s the use of writing anything?” he asked. “And when you come to that, what’s the use of living?”

“Really, my dear fellow, you are very simple!” said the Philosopher. “Pathetically so! There is of course no use in living. But, unhappily, we have no choice in the matter. We are born,—without our own specific consent—and we die—in the same attitude of non-volition. Apparently we come into life for the purpose of propagating our kind—to no special end. Those who decline to propagate human units are considered ridiculous—even if they propagate thoughts,—through literature, painting or music,—the world does not want literature, music or painting so much as it wants squalling, guzzling babies who will grow up into squalling, guzzling men and women—most of them having no aim in life except to squall and guzzle. I have chosen a path for myself out of the squall and guzzle track—I live my own life of studious contemplation, and though I fully recognise its uselessness in common with the general futility of things, I manage to endure existence comfortably.”

His friend looked at him,—and was about to say, “At other people’s expense!” but checked the remark in time.

“You don’t—er—you don’t—er seem to care about any one?” he hinted, hesitatingly.

The Philosopher elevated his grizzled eyebrows ironically.

“Care?” he echoed. “Care about any one?... Surely a cryptic utterance!”

“I mean”—pursued the other man—“you’ve no woman—”

“Woman!” The Philosopher laughed. “My good fellow, what do you take me for! Woman? Women? As well ask me if I keep midges for amusement! No, no! I’ve ‘no woman’ as you rather clumsily put it—I might marry—it is possible—”

“Oh, really? You might?”

“Money—and good looks together might persuade me,” resumed the Philosopher judiciously. “But I should endeavor to make myself very sure that my own special manners and customs would not be interfered with by the procedure. The first aim of life—considering its farcical ineptitude—should be personal comfort,—anything that interfered with that should be rigorously avoided.”

The friend went his way, lost in amazement at what he styled “the old chap’s d—d selfishness”—but the Philosopher smoked a pipe enjoyingly, convinced that his theories were beyond all refutation or argument, and that so far from being selfish he was one of the most virtuous and magnanimous of men. Encased in a hide of hardened egoism, tougher and more leathery than that of rhinoceros or elephant, he was unable to perceive any faults of character in himself though he was keen to mark and to satirize the smallest flaw in the conduct of other people.

While he lingered on in the country, “sponging” on his host, he took it into his head to assume a benevolence and kindness towards his host’s daughter, which, in her rather solitary way of life, greatly appealed to her over-sensitive nature. He could be an attractive personality when he chose,—he had an agreeable voice, a pleasant smile, and a coaxing manner,—and when all three were “in play” together, it was difficult not to be deceived into thinking him an exceptionally charming man. There was no doubt of his intellectuality; he was eminent in knowledge of a varied kind,—he had read widely and he was a good raconteur. Yet one got to the end of his stories in time, and he was apt to repeat them too often. He had known and still knew many “famous” people,—both in literary and political circles, and he could tell many amusing incidents in connection with them,—yet even of these incidents one got tired after hearing them for the twentieth time. What took the savour out of them was that he always rounded them up by some unkind reflection as to the stupidity of that person, the dulness of t’other, for in his whole list of acquaintance there certainly was not one who came off unscathed by his sarcasm or his ridicule.

The Sentimentalist thought of this often, and argued, sensibly enough, that what he said of any one man or woman he was likely to say of any other, so that a certain sense of uneasiness began to undermine all her talks with him. With a touch of self-humiliation she felt she was “not clever enough” to converse with him in the style he approved. As a matter of fact, she was too clever,—because she had that sure feminine instinct which discovers insincerity before it positively declares itself. And gradually, very gradually, she withdrew the frankness of her nature, curling it up as it were like the leaves of the “sensitive plant” at his touch,—and he, slow to perceive this repulsion, or rather, too self-complacent to think such repulsion was possible, became more and more patronising and “superior,” treating her for the most part as a pleasing but foolish child, easily swayed by passing emotions, and therefore capable of being “caught” by even the simulation of affection if the “counterfeiting” were well done.

“And so”—said he, one chilly afternoon when a bitter east wind blew suggestions of snow through the air—“your Jack is in khaki?”

She was sewing busily, and looked up from her work with eyes that flashed warningly.

“He is not ‘my’ Jack,” she replied, coldly. “I have told you that before.”

“Well, he is somebody’s Jack,” persisted the Philosopher, stretching out his legs comfortably before the fire. “I suppose you’ll agree to that. May I warm my feet?”

Without waiting for an answer he drew up his chair close to the fender, and slipping off his shoes, extended his woollen-socked feet towards the blaze. This sort of self-coddling was one of his “little ways”—those “little ways” of blunt familiarity which distinguish the truly “great” who make free with their friends’ houses. She glanced at him with just the smallest quiver of contempt on the usually sweet lines of her mouth, and went on sewing.

“This is a kind of domestic bliss!” he said, airily. “If you ever marry, your husband will warm his feet like this!”

She was silent.

“But I really don’t think,” he went on, “that marriage would suit you. I doubt if you would keep a husband six months!”

She stopped the flash of her needle through her work.

“I should not ‘keep’ a husband six days!” she said, quietly. “I should expect him to keep himself!—and me!”

“So like a woman to twist a meaning out of what was never meant!” retorted the Philosopher. “Your mind, being feminine, at once seizes on the wrong view of the subject. My suggestion was that, being full of sentiment, you would expect sentiment in a husband. You would not find it—you would be disappointed,—or ‘wounded’—I think ‘wounded’ is the favourite expression women use in regard to their feelings,—you would consider him a brute, and he would consider you a bore—and it would be all over!”

She nodded, resuming her sewing.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It would be all over.”

Her swift acquiescence irritated him.

“I’m glad you have the sense to see it—” he began, in a raspy voice.

“Why, of course!” she interrupted him, with a light laugh. “If I considered him a brute and he considered me a bore, we should have nothing in common, and we should separate and go our different ways.”

“Oh, that’s how you’d settle it!” and the Philosopher gave a dubious grunt. “But, if you had a husband, he would be your master, and any arrangement of that kind would have to be made to suit him, and not you!”

“Yes?” and the pretty uplift of her eyebrows emphasized the question. “Thank goodness I haven’t a husband yet!—and if your ideas of marriage are likely to be true I hope I never shall have one!”

“You see,” said the Philosopher, folding his arms and hugging himself comfortably, “you are a little person who cannot bear to be contradicted, and a husband would probably contradict you twenty or fifty times a day. His opinions would always differ from yours. The man’s point of view is entirely the reverse of the woman’s. A man’s idea of love—” He paused.

“It is difficult to explain, isn’t it?” she queried, sweetly. “I’m afraid you couldn’t put it nicely!”

“Put it nicely?” he echoed. “What do you mean? Put it nicely?”

“Well, I’m afraid I couldn’t put it nicely myself,” she said, demurely, “because—you see—sometimes a man’s idea of love isn’t nice!”

He unfolded his arms and stared at her.

“Isn’t nice!” he repeated. “What is it then? Nasty?”

She laughed.

“Perhaps! Anyway it’s nearly always selfish!”

“Oh, that’s the way you look at it, is it? And is not woman’s idea of love quite as selfish?”

“I think not,” she answered, quietly. “Women have to give all,—men are free to take all.”

He was, for the moment, silent. It dawned upon him that the Sentimentalist was not “a Plum,”—a Plum to fall into his mouth with a bang. She might be ripe,—but she was not ready. With elaborate slowness he withdrew his socked feet from the fender and slipped them into his ungainly shoes.

“Very well,—it comes to this,” he said, resignedly, “Women are always right, and men always wrong—in a woman’s opinion. As I have already remarked, you cannot bear to be contradicted.”

She looked at him with eyes dancing merrily like sparkles of light.

“Oh—h-h!” and she held up a small reproachful finger. “Who is contradicting anybody? There’s nothing to contradict! We were having just a little friendly argument which started on your last piece of rudeness.”

“Rudeness?” he exclaimed. “When and how have I been rude?”

“Don’t you think it was very rude to say that you doubted whether I would keep a husband six months?”

“Nothing rude about it,” he declared, airily. “It was a frank statement.”

“Suppose I made a ‘frank statement’ about you?” she suggested. “Do you think you would care to hear it?”

“It depends entirely on the nature of the statement,” he replied. “I should decline to listen to anything incorrect.”

Her light laugh rang out sweetly.

“Anything incorrect means anything against your own ideas,” she said. “I see! Well, I won’t be as ‘rude’ as to make any statement at all about you, to your face! One should never be personal.”

She resumed her sewing, and he walked slowly to the window, looked out at the leafless branches of the trees swaying in the wind, and then walked as slowly back again.

“I suppose you do think of getting married some day?” he queried.

“Oh, dear me! Haven’t I just said one should never be personal?” she rejoined, smiling. “No,—I can’t say I have ever thought about it!”

He bent his eyes down upon her.

“‘Gather ye roses while ye may,’” he quoted sententiously. “‘Old Time is still a-flying!’”

“Is a husband a rose?” she asked, merrily.

He wrinkled his fuzzy brows.

“Well, perhaps not altogether. He might be the useful cabbage or potato in the soup. In any case for a woman, a man’s protection is necessary.”

“But does he protect? Doesn’t he often desert?”

“In the annals of the gutter press he does,—I grant you that. Life, however, is something more than cheap sensationalism.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that!” and she raised her eyes, blue as blue cornflowers, full of a lovely earnestness. “Life is such a beautiful, holy thing!—and one feels such a desire to make it always more beautiful and more holy!”

The Philosopher got up one of his ugly noisy coughs. The Sentimentalist was becoming transcendental. He felt he must bring her down from the rainbow empyrean.

“There’s nothing beautiful or holy about it,” he grunted. “Life is life—two and two are four. A man is a man; a brute is a brute. Nature cannot be altered. If a woman’s unlucky enough to marry a brute instead of a man, she gets brutal treatment. Quite her own fault!—she should have known better!”

“But how is one to find out the difference between a man and a brute?” asked the Sentimentalist with an innocent air of enquiry.

He smiled—almost he laughed.

“Not bad!” he said. “I give you that! Not bad at all—for a woman!”

He walked up and down the room again, and finally resorting to his pipe, lit it.

“All the same,” he presently resumed, “even if your powers of perception failed to discern the brute in the man or the man in the brute, you ought to marry.”

“Really! You think so?” And she looked up from her sewing with a little mutinous air.

“Certainly I think so. An unmarried woman is a target for scandal—unless she is very old and very plain—and even then she doesn’t always escape. You,—having a fair amount of good looks, should marry quickly.”

Her face brightened with sudden dimples of mirth.

“Perhaps I might,—if I could find any one rich enough to suit me,” she said.

“Rich enough!” The Philosopher was taken aback. It had never occurred to him that she, like himself, might have a fancy for the luxuries of life.

“Rich enough!” he echoed. “Surely you have no mercenary taint?—no hankering after the flesh-pots of Egypt?”

She laughed, and made a little dab at him in the air with her needle.

“I’m not so sure!” she answered, gaily. “I like comfort and warmth, and flowers and pretty furniture—and frocks—and jewels—oh!—how shocked you look!”

“I look as I feel,” said the Philosopher, puffing slowly at his pipe. “I thought you altogether different,—of a finer mould than the merely frivolous woman—”

“Now! How can you say that?” she demanded. “When only the other day you told me that I had a new hat on, and ought to be perfectly happy in consequence!”

He looked sheepish for a moment, but soon recovered his assertiveness.

“True!—and quite unconsciously I hit upon a fact,” he said. “For now, by your own admission, your tastes lead you in the direction of mere frippery. Frocks! Jewels! Good heavens! Two frocks a year—a simple brooch of unadorned gold, and a couple of plain hats, suffice for any reasonable woman whose thoughts are trained and fixed—” he paused—then repeated, “whose thoughts are trained and fixed—” He paused again.

“Yes?” she queried. “Whose thoughts are trained and fixed?—on what?”

“On the simple ideals of life,” he said. “On domestic economies—the chemistry of the kitchen—the various useful arts by which a woman can make herself indispensable to man—”

“I know!” And she had such a dancing sparkle of mirth and mischief in her blue eyes that he could not meet her glances. “The chief art of all is to give him a good dinner! Sometimes—not always—that is why a man gets married—that he may have a cook-housekeeper on the premises!” She laughed merrily,—the Philosopher surveyed her with a kind of ironic compassion.

“You think that funny!” he observed. “But it isn’t! Your worldly wisdom is by no means profound—”

“Of course it isn’t!” she agreed. “It’s shallow—shallow as a running brook!—but quite pleasant! I should hate to be profound,—and—stagnant! And if I ever do get married, I shall try to marry a rich man, who would be kind to me and take pleasure in giving me all sorts of lovely things—and I should not be mercenary, only I should like him to do things for me, and not want me to wait upon him! I think it such a pity that our men always expect to be attended to first! Americans are quite different!—they always look after women in such a courteous, friendly way! After all, kindness is the true chivalry.”

He dropped lazily into an armchair and began his favourite pastime of puffing smoke-rings into the air, with the usual ugly distortions of face which accompanied that effort.

“You are quite eloquent!” he observed, sardonically. “I notice you have a special predilection for Americans. Why, I can’t imagine! Perhaps you are looking out for an American millionaire?”

She nodded her fair little head mischievously.

“Perhaps!” she replied.

The Philosopher made a particularly hideous O of his unbeautiful mouth at that moment, as he discharged a well-nigh perfect smoke-ring from its cavity.

“The noble and high-minded Jack scarcely answers to your requirements,” he said.

“No, poor fellow!” and she smiled. “I believe he has always been more or less hard up. His father put him into some great engineering works, but of course he had to pay to be taken at all—he was not paid. But he learned everything he could. Now he’s quite pleased he’s joined the Army—you see he’s paid there!—and has his food and clothes as well—so he’s happy and satisfied.”

“Fortunate youth!” said the Philosopher, yawning. “And doubly fortunate to have secured so much interest in his doings as you bestow upon him!”

She was silent.

The Philosopher continued making smoke-rings and she wished he would leave off. It was unreasonable of her to feel irritated with him, and yet she could not help it. He, on his part, was conscious of having come up against an obstacle in his mental plans of conquest,—a soft obstacle, something like a sand-bag in the path of a bullet. On that particular winter afternoon he had purposed “making a dash for it” as he had said to himself, and risking an attempt at love-making. He had thought of various ways of doing it, more or less approved. It was a cold, bleak day—a day that was enough to make gentle ladies shiver and draw near the fire,—if she had drawn near, he would have essayed—yes, he thought he would have essayed slipping an arm round her waist as he had done on that occasion when he had pricked or (as he would have expressed it), “lacerated” his hand among the rose-bushes, and she had “kissed the place and made it well.” Yes, she had actually done that! And now, little by little, a curious, imperceptible shadow had arisen like a dividing wall, so that she appeared to be on one side and he on the other, and he felt by a strange, almost sullen instinct that were he to “lacerate” his hand ever so severely, he would not be favoured by the light, soft touch of those rosy lips again. Now, what mood possessed her, he wondered? What fantastic feminine vagary had made her thus capricious? Wrapped in a thick hide of intellectual egotism the Philosopher could not see that he was in any sense to blame.

Had any one ventured to tell him that his ingrained selfishness and utter indifference to the feelings of any other human entity than his own, had profoundly affected the Sentimentalist and moved her to reluctant aversion, tempered with pity, he would have been virtuously indignant. For he had his own peculiar methods of estimating his own conduct.

“I! I, selfish!” he would have exclaimed. “I, who am always trying to amuse and please everybody! I give up my own wishes constantly in order to suit other people! I am a perpetual entertainment to my friends when they are too dull-witted to entertain themselves! I am really one of the most unselfish and good-natured of men! I never ‘bore’ anybody!”

And he would have argued that to stay on week after week in an extremely comfortable country house with all his food provided, was really a magnanimous condescension on his part, inasmuch as he was assisting a very irritable old gentleman to pursue literary work which interested him, and at the same time impressing by his various qualifications a very romantic and idealistic little lady who, unfortunately for herself, had an idea that all clever men must be worth knowing.

Yes,—when he had “lacerated” his hand among the roses, her manner towards him had been charmingly different from what it was now. She was then still under the glamour and delusion of his reported renown as a learned and brilliant personality. She looked at him with timid interest; she listened to him with a pretty reverence. But now her blue eyes studied him with a critical coolness,—and though she still listened to his talk, she was not, as before, earnestly attentive. Nothing seemed so impossible as to put his arm round her waist now,—and yet that was exactly what he had hoped to do on this winter’s afternoon by the fire. He took refuge in a few banalities. Heaving a deep sigh, he said suddenly: