s no false
radiance in her case. She carried her pocket Shakespeare about with
her, and met life fortified by the words of the poets. How far she saw
Denham, and how far she confused him with some hero of fiction, it would
be hard to say. Literature had taken possession even of her memories.
She was matching him, presumably, with certain characters in the old
novels, for she came out, after a pause, with:

"Um--um--Pendennis--Warrington--I could never forgive Laura," she
pronounced energetically, "for not marrying George, in spite of
everything. George Eliot did the very same thing; and Lewes was a little
frog-faced man, with the manner of a dancing master. But Warrington,
now, had everything in his favor; intellect, passion, romance,
distinction, and the connection was a mere piece of undergraduate folly.
Arthur, I confess, has always seemed to me a bit of a fop; I can't
imagine how Laura married him. But you say you're a solicitor, Mr.
Denham. Now there are one or two things I should like to ask you--about
Shakespeare--" She drew out her small, worn volume with some difficulty,
opened it, and shook it in the air. "They say, nowadays, that
Shakespeare was a lawyer. They say, that accounts for his knowledge of
human nature. There's a fine example for you, Mr. Denham. Study your
clients, young man, and the world will be the richer one of these days,
I have no doubt. Tell me, how do we come out of it, now; better or worse
than you expected?"

Thus called upon to sum up the worth of human nature in a few words,
Ralph answered unhesitatingly:

"Worse, Mrs. Cosham, a good deal worse. I'm afraid the ordinary man is a
bit of a rascal--"

"And the ordinary woman?"

"No, I don't like the ordinary woman either--"

"Ah, dear me, I've no doubt that's very true, very true." Mrs. Cosham
sighed. "Swift would have agreed with you, anyhow--" She looked at him,
and thought that there were signs of distinct power in his brow. He
would do well, she thought, to devote himself to satire.

"Charles Lavington, you remember, was a solicitor," Mrs. Milvain
interposed, rather resenting the waste of time involved in talking about
fictitious people when you might be talking about real people. "But you
wouldn't remember him, Katharine."

"Mr. Lavington? Oh, yes, I do," said Katharine, waking from other
thoughts with her little start. "The summer we had a house near Tenby. I
remember the field and the pond with the tadpoles, and making hays