It was the practical side of all this that astonished Lucian.  He saw that in reality there was no high-flown quixotism in a woman’s nature; the smooth arms, made he had thought for caressing, seemed muscular; the hands meant for the doing of works of pity in his system, appeared dexterous in the giving of “stingers,” as Barnes might say, and the smiling lips could sneer with great ease.  Nor was he more fortunate in his personal experiences.  As has been told, Mrs. Dixon spoke of him in connection with “judgments,” and the younger ladies did not exactly cultivate his acquaintance.  Theoretically they “adored” books and thought poetry “too sweet,” but in practice they preferred talking about mares and fox-terriers and their neighbors.

They were nice girls enough, very like other young ladies in other country towns, content with the teaching of their parents, reading the Bible every morning in their bedrooms, and sitting every Sunday in church amongst the well-dressed “sheep” on the right hand.  It was not their fault if they failed to satisfy the ideal of an enthusiastic dreamy boy, and indeed, they would have thought his feigned woman immodest, absurdly sentimental, a fright ("never wears stays, my dear”) and horrid.

At first he was a good deal grieved at the loss of that charming tender woman, the work of his brain.  When the Miss Dixons went haughtily by with a scornful waggle, when the Miss Gervases passed in the wagonette laughing as the mud splashed him, the poor fellow would look up with a facie of grief that must have been very comic; “like a dying duck,” as Edith Gervase said.  Edith was really very pretty, and he would have liked to talk to her, even about fox-terriers, if she would have listened.  One afternoon at the Dixons’ he really forced himself upon her, and with all the obtuseness of an enthusiastic boy tried to discuss the Lotus Eaters of Tennyson.  It was too absurd.  Captain Kempton was making signals to Edith all the time, and Lieutenant Gatwick had gone off in disgust, and he had promised to bring her a puppy “by Vick out of Wasp.”  At last the poor girl could bear it no longer: 

“Yes, it’s very sweet,” she said at last.  “When did you say you were going to London, Mr. Taylor?”

It was about the time that his disappointment became known to everybody, and the shot told.  He gave her a piteous look and slunk off, “just like the dog when he’s had a whipping,” to use Edith’s own expression.  Two or three lessons of this description produced their due effect; and when he saw a male Dixon or Gervase approaching him he bit his lip and summoned up his courage.  But when he descried a “ministering angel” he made haste and hid behind a hedge or took to the woods.  In course of time the desire to escape became an instinct, to be followed as a matter of course; in the same way he avoided the adders on the mountain.  His old ideals were almost if not quite forgotten; he knew that the female of the bete humaine,