"To-morrow, I think,--I hope," says Horace; and, with a little nod on
both sides, they part. But when the bend in the road again hides him
from view, it would occur to a casual on-looker that Horace
Branscombe's thoughts must once more have taken his physical powers
into captivity, as his pace quickens, until it grows even swifter
than it was before.

Sartoris goes leisurely down the hill, with Dorian beside him,
whistling "Nancy Lee," in a manner highly satisfactory to himself, no
doubt, but slightly out of tune. When Sartoris can bear this musical
treat no longer, he breaks hurriedly into speech of a description that
requires an answer.

"What a pretty girl Clarissa Peyton is! don't you think so?"

When Dorian has brought Miss Lee to a triumphant finish, with a
flourish that would have raised murderous longings in the breast of
Stephen Adams, he says, without undue enthusiasm,--

"Yes, she is about the best-looking woman I know."

"And as unaffected as she is beautiful. That is her principal charm.
So thoroughly bred, too, in every thought and action. I never met so
lovable a creature!"

"What a pity she can't hear you!" says Branscombe. "Though perhaps it
is as well she can't. Adulation has a bad effect on some people."

"She is too earnest, too thorough, to be upset by flattery. I
sometimes wonder if there are any like her in the world."

"Very few, I think," says Dorian, genially.

Another pause, somewhat longer than the last, and then Sartoris says,
with some hesitation, "Do you never think of marrying, Dorian?"

"Often," says Branscombe, with an amused smile.

"Yet how seldom you touch on the matter! Why, when I was your age, I
had seen at least twenty women I should have married, had they shown
an answering regard for me."

"What a blessing they didn't!" says Branscombe. "Fancy, twenty of
them! You'd have found it awkward in the long run, wouldn't you? And I
don't think they'd have liked it, you know, in this illiberal country.
So glad you thought better of it."

"I wish I could once see you as honestly"--with a slight, almost
unconscious, stress on the word--"in love as I have been scores of
times."

"What a melancholy time you must have put in! When a fellow is in
love he goes to skin and bone, doesn't he? slights his dinner, and
refuses to find solace in the best cigar. It must be trying,--very;
especially to one's friends. I doubt you were a susceptible youth,
Arthur. I'm not."

"Then