ive has ceased to exist."

My own opinion of the novel was reinforced by that of Paul Barr, which
prevented me from thinking, as I might otherwise have done, that I was
actuated by ill-nature in judging Miss Kingsley's book. After the first
phase of curiosity its popularity waned, and the author adopted the
fashion of calling it an artistic success. But the complimentary
criticism of Mr. Spence gave me food for thought, and for the first time
suggested the idea of a possible feeling on his part for Miss Kingsley
stronger than friendship. It interested me, and at the same time annoyed
me a little. Why the latter I hardly knew, unless it were a conviction
that she was not good enough for him. But when I thought over their
daily relations as constantly exhibited in my presence, my former
opinion that he had merely a brotherly affection for her returned. If he
had been misled to praise her book unduly, it was by his excessive
enthusiasm for his own doctrines presented therein, and not by the blind
force of love,--which conclusion was directly at variance with the
theory of Mrs. Marsh on the subject, who was perpetually referring to
the match between them as a foregone conclusion.

Discreet as was my conduct in general during these twelve months, and
earnestly as I sought to avoid in its mildest form what Aunt Agnes
called coquetry, I was not able to escape the importunities of Mr. Barr.
Absorbed as I was in my work, and determined to consider all attentions
from my literary friends as mere meaningless gallantries, it was very
difficult to disregard the artist-poet's protestations of devotion: they
had become little short of that. He was a constant visitor at the rooms
of our Society, although his own principles were hostile to those we
professed; and he would spend as much time as I would permit, lolling
about my desk and whispering all sorts of nonsense. He brought me
flowers and fruit, and now and then some new publication,--not in
sufficient quantity to permit me to refuse them, but a single rose or a
peach, or a tiny volume of verses. He sent me sonnets and madrigals
through the post without signature, though in his own handwriting, and
denied with asseverations their authorship when questioned. Besides
his black and his brown, he had a green velveteen coat, and a
different-colored flowing tie for every day in the week. His habits were
in complete conformity with his philosophy of extremes. He was apt to
tell me when h