ng how
extraordinarily well set-up he is. He would have done well in the army.
He cuts an effective figure."

"He is distinguished; would one call him handsome?"

"There's a nobility about him, of course. I am wondering whether he is
really so clever as many make out. He is learned and thoughtful; he has
plenty of pluck and he's the best fellow in the world. But----"

"I wish I knew him better," sighed the young lady; "I liked him and
believed in him on the strength of your recommendation. That was an
immense prejudice in his favour."

She looked up with a sweet and trustful smile which would have satisfied
a harder adversary than Reckage. He was not so hard, however, as he was
egoistic, and it was not a question of softening his heart. Sara had the
far more difficult task of soothing his tortured vanity.

"I don't know," he said, losing caution, "that I want you to take him up
quite so strongly! No one could call him a coxcomb, yet he, not aware of
the real cause of your interest, might be over-flattered. He might,
eventually, begin to hope----"

"What?" she asked, with burning cheeks.

"All sorts of things. He's a man, and you are beautiful. And I have
heard him say a thousand times that so-called Platonics are possible for
one of the two, but never for both. Doesn't this explain the many cases
of unrequited love? You are vexed, I can see it. But I am not thinking
of you. I am thinking of Robert."

"He is not so sentimental as you imagine."

"Isn't he? This affair with Mrs. Parflete was pure sentimentality from
beginning to end--a poet's love. He would have another feeling for
you--something much stronger. You are so human, Sara. I would far sooner
kill you than write poetry to you. You are life--not literature. That
little thing with shining hair and a porcelain face is for dreams. Of
course, he will always love her--after a fashion. He might even compare
you with her and find her your superior in every way--except as a
woman. We may be at moments poets, at moments saints, but the greater
part of the time, a man is a man. And you are no friend for a man.
Pensee Fitz Rewes might answer well enough; she has had sorrow, she has
two children, she has a gentle, maternal air. But you----"

He threw back his head and laughed without mirth.

"You!" he repeated. "My God!"

"You are talking very foolishly, Beauclerk. Perhaps it is your odd way
of making yourself agreeable. It doesn't please me a bit to be told th