s," said the young lady with
decision, "was a decadent."

"Was he? How about the _Bacchae_? Of course, it's worth all the rest of
his plays put together; they're not in the same street with it. It's a
thing to dream about, to go mad about."

"My grandfather says it's not Euripidean." "Good Lord! How do we know
it isn't the most Euripidean of the lot?"

"Well, it stands alone, doesn't it?"

"Yes. And he stands with it."

"Does he? My grandfather was judging him by his average."

"His average? Oh, I say, you know, you could reduce some very great
poets to mediocrity by striking their average. Wouldn't you allow a
man to be at least as great as his greatest achievement?"

"I wonder--"

"Anyhow, those are ripping good notes in that edition."

"They ought to be. They were by a good scholar--his greatest
achievement."

He put down the Harden Euripides; and it struck Lucia that if Sir
Joseph had been there this truthful young man would not have hesitated
to put him down too. She laid her hand on the book with an air of
possession and protection, which was a lesson in tact for the truthful
young man. He leaned up against the bookcase with his hands in his
pockets.

"I say," said he, "I hope you don't mind my talking like this to you?"

"No. Why shouldn't you?"

"Well, it isn't exactly what I'm here for."

That exciting conversation had lasted barely fifteen minutes; but it
had set him for the time being at his ease. He had at any rate proved
himself a scholar, and he was so far happier. He felt that he was
beginning to get on with Miss Harden, to see a little way across the
gulf, discerning the outlines of the further shore where that high
lady walked unveiled.

Then suddenly, owing to a most humiliating incident, the gulf yawned
again.

It was five o'clock, and he was left alone in the company of a
fascinating little tea-table, laid, as if for a guest, with fine white
linen, silk embroidered, with early Georgian silver and old china. It
was laid for him, that little tea-table. He had delayed a little
before beginning his repast, and it happened that when Miss Harden
appeared again she found him holding a tea-cup to his lips with one
hand, while the other groped in a dish of cream cakes, abstractedly,
and without the guidance of a selective eye. Both eyes indeed were
gazing dreamily over the rim of the tea-cup at her empty chair. He was
all right; so why, oh why did he turn brick-red and dash his cup down