Iris, my dear!—­exclaimed another voice, as of a female, in accents that might be considered a strong atmospheric solution of duty with very little flavor of grace.

She did not move for this address, and there was a tableau that lasted some seconds.  For the young girl, in the glory of half-blown womanhood, and the dwarf, the cripple, the misshapen little creature covered with Nature’s insults, looked straight into each other’s eyes.

Perhaps no handsome young woman had ever looked at him so in his life.  Certainly the young girl never had looked into eyes that reached into her soul as these did.  It was not that they were in themselves supernaturally bright,—­but there was the sad fire in them that flames up from the soul of one who looks on the beauty of woman without hope, but, alas! not without emotion.  To him it seemed as if those amber gates had been translucent as the brown water of a mountain-brook, and through them he had seen dimly into a virgin wilderness, only waiting for the sunrise of a great passion for all its buds to blow and all its bowers to ring with melody.

That is my image, of course,—­not his.  It was not a simile that was in his mind, or is in anybody’s at such a moment,—­it was a pang of wordless passion, and then a silent, inward moan.

A lady’s wish,—­he said, with a certain gallantry of manner,—­makes slaves of us all.—­And Nature, who is kind to all her children, and never leaves the smallest and saddest of all her human failures without one little comfit of self-love at the bottom of his poor ragged pocket,—­Nature suggested to him that he had turned his sentence well; and he fell into a reverie, in which the old thoughts that were always hovering just outside the doors guarded by Common Sense, and watching for a chance to squeeze in, knowing perfectly well they would be ignominiously kicked out again as soon as Common Sense saw them, flocked in pellmell,—­misty, fragmentary, vague, half-ashamed of themselves, but still shouldering up against his inner consciousness till it warmed with their contact:—­John Wilkes’s—­the ugliest man’s in England—­saying, that with half-an-hour’s start he would cut out the handsomest man in all the land in any woman’s good graces; Cadenus—­old and savage—­leading captive Stella and Vanessa; and then the stray line of a ballad,—­“And a winning tongue had he,”—­as much as to say, it isn’t looks, after all, but cunning words, that win our Eves over,—­just as of old, when it was the worst-looking brute of the lot that got our grandmother to listen to his stuff, and so did the mischief.

Ah, dear me!  We rehearse the part of Hercules with his club, subjugating man and woman in our fancy, the first by the weight of it, and the second by our handling of it,—­we rehearse it, I say, by our own hearth-stones, with the cold poker as our club, and the exercise is easy.  But when we come to real life, the poker is in the fire, and, ten to one, if we would grasp it, we find it too hot to hold;—­lucky for us, if it is not white-hot, and we do not have to leave the skin of our hands sticking to it when we fling it down or drop it with a loud or silent cry!