“Why not?  We have our King Arthur, and our Merlin the Enchanter,” he said.

“A speech from Mr. Merlin,” cried Amy, gayly, while Hope looked up from her work with encouraging, queenly eyes.  Arthur looked at them eagerly.

“Oh, Diana!  Diana!” he thought, but did not say.  That was the only speech he made, and nobody heard it.

The meetings of the Round Table were devoted to poetry, but of a very practical kind.  It was pure romance, but without any thing technically romantic.  Mrs. Waring often sat with the little party, and, as she worked, talked with Lawrence Newt of earlier days—­“days when you were not born, dears,” she said, cheerfully, as if to appropriate Mr. Newt.  And whenever she made this kind of allusion Amy’s work became very intricate indeed, demanding her closest attention.  But Hope Wayne, remembering her first evening in his society, raised her eyes again with curiosity, and as she did so Lawrence smiled kindly and gravely, and his eyes hung upon hers as if he saw again what he had thought never to see; while Hope resolved that she would ask him under what circumstances he had known Pinewood.  But the opportunity had not yet arrived.  She did not wish to ask before the others.  There are some secrets that we involuntarily respect, while we only know that they are secrets.

The more Arthur Merlin saw of Hope Wayne the more delighted he was to think how impossible it was for him, in view of his profound devotion to his art, to think of beautiful women in any other light than that of picturesque subjects.

“Really, Mr. Newt,” Arthur said to him one evening as they were dining together at Delmonico’s—­which was then in William Street—­“if I were to paint a picture of Diana when she loved Endymion—­a picture, by-the-by, which I intend to paint—­I should want to ask Miss Wayne to sit to me for the principal figure.  It is really remarkable what a subdued splendor there is about her—­Diana blushing, you know, as it were—­the moon delicately veiled in cloud.  It would be superb, I assure you.”

Lawrence Newt smiled—­he often smiled—­as he wiped his mouth, and asked,

“Who would you ask to sit for Endymion?”

“Well, let me see,” replied Arthur, cheerfully, and pondering as if to determine who was exactly the man.  It was really beautiful to see his exclusive enthusiasm for his art.  “Let me see.  How would it do to paint an ideal figure for Endymion?”

“No, no,” said Lawrence Newt, laughing; “art must get its ideal out of the real.  I demand a good, solid, flesh-and-blood Endymion.”

“I can’t just think of any body,” replied Arthur Merlin, musingly, looking upon the floor, and thinking so intently of Hope, in order to image to himself a proper Endymion, that he quite forgot to think of the candidates for that figure.

“How would my young friend Hal Battlebury answer?” asked Lawrence Newt.

“Oh, not at all,” replied Arthur, promptly; “he’s too light, you know.”