n
saw it. He is one of the two men at our table who most need the tender
looks and tones of a woman. The Professor and I are hors de combat;
the Counsellor is busy with his cases and his ambitions; the Doctor
is probably in love with a microscope, and flirting with pathological
specimens; but Number Seven and the Tutor are, I fear, both suffering
from that worst of all famines, heart-hunger.

Do you remember that Number Seven said he never wrote a line of "poetry"
in his life, except once when he was suffering from temporary weakness
of body and mind? That is because he is a poet. If he had not been one,
he would very certainly have taken to tinkling rhymes. What should you
think of the probable musical genius of a young man who was particularly
fond of jingling a set of sleigh-bells? Should you expect him to turn
out a Mozart or a Beethoven? Now, I think I recognize the poetical
instinct in Number Seven, however imperfect may be its expression, and
however he may be run away with at times by fantastic notions that come
into his head. If fate had allotted him a helpful companion in the shape
of a loving and intelligent wife, he might have been half cured of his
eccentricities, and we should not have had to say, in speaking of him,
"Poor fellow!" But since this cannot be, I am pleased that he should
have been so kindly treated on the occasion of the reading of his paper.
If he saw Number Five's tear, he will certainly fall in love with her.
No matter if he does Number Five is a kind of Circe who does not turn
the victims of her enchantment into swine, but into lambs. I want to see
Number Seven one of her little flock. I say "little." I suspect it is
larger than most of us know. Anyhow, she can spare him sympathy and
kindness and encouragement enough to keep him contented with himself and
with her, and never miss the pulses of her loving life she lends him.
It seems to be the errand of some women to give many people as much
happiness as they have any right to in this world. If they concentrated
their affection on one, they would give him more than any mortal could
claim as his share. I saw Number Five watering her flowers, the other
day. The watering-pot had one of those perforated heads, through which
the water runs in many small streams. Every plant got its share: the
proudest lily bent beneath the gentle shower; the lowliest daisy held
its little face up for baptism. All were refreshed, none was flooded.
Presently she