said coldly and "squarely:"

"This is a girl whom I have known only a fortnight or so; she lives
over a second-hand bookshop; she is a teacher by profession; she knows
none of the ways of society; she would doubtless be guilty of all
kinds of queer things, if she were suddenly introduced to good people;
probably, she would never learn our manners," with more to the same
effect, which may be reasonably omitted. Then his Conscience woke up,
and said quite simply: "Arnold, you are a liar." Conscience does
sometimes call hard names. She is feminine, and therefore privileged
to call hard names. Else we would sometimes kick and belabor
Conscience. "Arnold, don't tell more lies. You have been gradually
learning to know Iris, through the wisest and sweetest letters that
were ever written, for a whole year. You gradually began to know her,
in fact, when you first began to interlard your letters with conceited
revelations about yourself. You knew her to be sympathetic, quick, and
of a most kind and tender heart. You are quite sure, though you try to
disguise the fact, that she is as honest as the day, and as true as
steel. As for her not being a lady, you ought to be ashamed of
yourself for even thinking such a thing. Has she not been tenderly
brought up by two old men who are full of honor, and truth, and all
the simple virtues? Does she not look, move, and speak like the most
gracious lady in the land?" "Like a goddess," Arnold confessed. "As
for the ways and talk of society, what are these worth? and cannot
they be acquired? And what are her manners save those of the most
perfect refinement and purity?" Thus far Conscience. Then Arnold, or
Arnold's secret _advocatus diaboli_, began upon another and quite
different line. "She must have schemed at the outset to get me into
her net; she is a siren; she assumes the disguise of innocence and
ignorance the better to beguile and to deceive. She has gone home
to-day elated because she thinks she has landed a gentleman."

Conscience said nothing; there are some things to which Conscience has
no reply in words to offer; yet Conscience pointed to the portrait of
the girl, and bade the most unworthy of all lovers look upon even his
own poor and meager representation of her eyes and face, and ask
whether such blasphemies could ever be forgiven.

After a self abasement, which for shame's sake we must pass over, the
young man felt happier.

Henry the Second felt much the same satisfacti