elf and others.

This was ridiculous enough, but it would hardly have affected anyone but
crusty old cranks who delight in talking about "young fools," were it
not for the fact that Severne was in love. And that brings us to the
point of our story.

Of course he was in love in a most serious-minded fashion. He did not
get much fun out of it. He brooded most of the time over lovers' duties
to each other and mankind. He had likewise an exalted conception of the
sacred, holy, and lofty character of love itself. This is commendable,
but handicaps a man seriously. Girls do not care for that kind of love
as a steady thing. Far be it from me to insinuate that those quite
angelic creatures ever actually want to be kissed; but if, by any purely
_accidental_ chance, circumstances bring it about that, without their
consent or suspicion, a brute of a man _might_ surprise them
awfully--well, said brute does not gain much by not springing the
surprise. Being adored on a pedestal is nice--in public. So you must see
that Severne's status in ordinary circumstances would be precarious.
Conceive his fearful despair at finding his heart irrevocably committed
to a young lady as serious-minded as himself, equally lacking in humour,
and devoted mind and soul to the romantic or idealistic school of
fiction! They often discussed the point seriously and heatedly. Each
tried conscientiously to convert the other. As usual, the attempt, after
a dozen protracted interviews, ended in the girl's losing her temper.
This made Severne angry. Girls are so unreasonable!

"What do you suppose I care how your foolish imaginary people brush
their teeth and button their suspenders and black their boots? I know
how old man Smith opposite does, and that is more than enough for me!"
she cried.

"The insight into human nature expresses itself thus," he argued,
gloomily.

"Rubbish!" she rejoined. "The idea of a man's wasting the talents heaven
has given him in describing as minutely and accurately as he can all the
nasty, little, petty occurrences of everyday life! It is sordid!"

"The beautiful shines through the dreariness, as it does in the real
life people live," he objected, stubbornly.

"The beautiful is in the imagination," she cried, with some heat; "and
the imagination is God-given; it is the only direct manifestation of the
divine on earth. Without imagination no writing can have life."

As this bordered on sentiment, abhorred of realism, Severne