e had
no difficulty in securing an introduction. She was a connection of the
Wetmores, as was he, though through opposite sides of the house. In the
few minutes' talk that followed, he had the disconcerting sensation of
being "talked down to." There was the indulgent tolerance of the woman of
the world to the "nice boy" about this amazing young woman, who might have
been eighteen. Hamilton had repudiated the very suggestion of being a
"nice boy." But he felt himself blushing, groping for words, saying stupid
things, supplying every requisite of the "nice boy" as if he were acting
the part. Her chaperon bore her away presently, and he was left with a
radiant impression of corn-silk hair and a complexion that justified
Bouguereau's mother-of-pearl flesh tints. And when she had tilted the
ruffled lace parasol over her shoulder, so that it framed her head like a
fleecy halo, he had seen that her eyes were green as jade. Withal he had a
sense of having acquitted himself stupidly.

Later, when he ran the gamut of some friends, they had chaffed him on his
hardihood. By Jove! He had nerve to look at her! Didn't he know she was
"the" Miss Colebrooke? Now Hamilton was absolutely ignorant of Miss
Colebrooke's right of way to the definite article, but it was
characteristic of him to make no inquiries. On the whole, he found the
situation meeting with a greater number of the artistic requirements than
such situations usually presented. He was still dallying with this
pleasant vagueness of sensation when he picked up a copy of a magazine,
and the name Katherine Colebrooke caught his eye and held it like the
flight of a comet. Her contribution was a sonnet entitled "The Miracle."
As a naive emotional confession, "The Miracle" interested him; as a
sonnet, he rent it unmercifully.

Peter was to learn, however, that this sonnet was but a solitary flake in
a poetic fall of more or less magnitude. He rather conspicuously avoided a
reference to her poetry when they met again. To him it was the very least
of her gifts. Her hair, that had the tender yellow of ripening corn, was
worthy a cycle of sonnets, but pray leave the making of them to some one
else! By daylight the jade-colored eyes seemed to shut out the world. The
pupils shrank to pin-points. The green looked deep--as many fathoms as the
sea. She was all Diana by daylight, a huntress, if you will, of the
elusive epithet, but essentially a maiden goddess, who would add no
sprightly ro