eaven.
Without her, Heaven is dispossessed of Heaven,
And Earth, discrowned and disinherited,
Shall beg in black eclipse, until her eyes--"

"Stay," I interrupted, "unless I am mistaken her eyes are like the
Pleiads, a simile to which I have more than once objected."

"If you would only listen you would find those lines cut out," said
Tom, pettishly.

"In that case I apologise: nevertheless, if that is your idea of a
Francesca, I confess she seems to me a trifle--shall we say?--
massive."

"Your Claire, I suppose, is stumpy?"

"My Claire," I replied with dignity, "is neither stumpy nor
stupendous."

"In fact, just the right height."

"Well, yes, just the right height."

Tom paid no attention, but went on in full career--

"I hate your Griseldas, your Jessamys, your Mary Anns; give me
Semiramis, Dido, Joan of--"

"My dear Tom, not all at once, I hope."

"Bah! you are so taken up with your own choice, that you must needs
scoff at anyone who happens to differ. I tell you, woman should be
imperial, majestic; should walk as a queen and talk as a goddess.
You scoff because you have never seen such; you shut your eyes and go
about saying, 'There is no such woman.' By heaven, Jasper, if you
could only see--"

At this point Tom suddenly pulled up and blushed like any child.

"Go on--whom shall I see?"

Tom's blush was beautiful to look upon.

"The Lambert, for instance; I meant--"

"Who is the Lambert?"

"Do you mean to say you have never heard of Clarissa Lambert, the
most glorious actress in London?"

"Never. Is she acting at the Coliseum?"

"Of course she is. She takes Francesca. Oh, Jasper, you should see
her, she is divine!"

Here another blush succeeded.

"So," I said after a pause, "you have taken upon yourself to fall in
love with this Clarissa Lambert."

Tom looked unutterably sheepish.

"Is the passion returned?"

"Jasper, don't talk like that and don't be a fool. Of course I have
never breathed a word to her. Why, she hardly knows me, has hardly
spoken to me beyond a few simple sentences. How should I, a
miserable author without even a name, speak to her? Jasper, do you
like the name Clarissa?"

"Not half so well as Claire."

"Nonsense; Claire is well enough as names go, but nothing to
Clarissa. Mark how the ending gives it grace and quaintness; what a
grand eighteenth-century ring it has! It is superb--so sweet, and at
the same time so stately."

"An