“Why, Mr. Fraser?”

“Because, my dear, both history and observation teach us that great gifts like yours partake of the character of an accident in a woman; they are not natural to her, and she does not wear such jewels easily —­they put her outside of her sex.  It is something as though a man were born into the world with wings.  At first he would be very proud of them, and go sailing about in the sky to the admiration of the crowds beneath him; but by-and-by he would grow tired of flying alone, and after all, it is not necessary to fly to transact the ordinary business of the world.  And perhaps at last he would learn to love somebody without wings, somebody who could not fly, and he would always want to be with her down on the homely earth, and not alone up in the heavenly heights.  If a woman had all the genius of Plato or all the learning of Solomon, it would be forgotten at the touch of a baby’s fingers.

“Well, well, we cannot fight against human nature, and I daresay that in a few years you will forget that you can read Greek as well as you can English, and were very near finding out a perfect way of squaring the circle.  Perhaps it is best so.  Lady Bellamy may have read a great many fine things in your face.  Shall I tell you what I read there?  I read that you will marry your Arthur, and become a happy wife and a happier mother; that your life will be one long story of unassuming kindness, and that, when at last you die, you will become a sacred memory in many hearts.  That is what I read.  The only magic you will ever wield, Angela, will be the magic of your goodness.”

“Who knows?  We cannot read the future,” she answered.

“And so you are going to Madeira next week.  Then, this will be the last time that we shall meet—­before you go, I mean—­for I am off to London to-morrow, for a while, on some business.  When next we meet, if we do meet again, Angela, you will be a married woman.  Do not start, dear; there is nothing shocking about that.  But, perhaps, we shall not meet any more.”

“Oh, Mr. Fraser! why do you say such dreadful things?”

“There is nothing dreadful about it, Angela.  I am getting on in life, and am not so strong as I was; and you are both young and strong, and must in the ordinary course of things outlive me for many years.  But, whatever happens, my dear, I know that you always keep a warm corner in your memory for your old master; and, as for me, I can honestly say, that to have known and taught you has been the greatest privilege of a rather lonely life.”

Here Angela began to cry.

“Don’t cry, my dear.  There is, thank God, another meeting-place than this, and, if I reach the shore of that great future before you, I shall—­but there, my dear, it is time for you to be going home.  You must not stop here to listen to this melancholy talk.  Go home, Angela, and think about your lover.  I am busy to-night.  Give me a kiss, dear, and go.”