She blushed deeply.  All these drawings, the multitudinous faces and heads and figures in the portfolio were a revelation to her.  And just at the very moment when she discovered that Arnold was one of those who worship beauty—­a thing she had never before understood—­he told her that her face was so beautiful that he must put in his picture.

“Oh, Arnold,” she said, “my face would be out of place in that picture.”

“Would it?  Please sit down, and let me make a sketch.”

He seized his crayons and began rapidly.

“What do you say, Lala Roy?” he asked by way of diversion.

“The gifts of the understanding,” said the Sage, “are the treasures of the Lord; and He appointeth to every one his portion.”

“Thank you,” replied Arnold.  “Very true and very apt, I’m sure.  Iris, please, your face turned just a little.  So.  Ah, if I can but do some measure of justice to your eyes!”

When Iris went away, there was for the first time the least touch of restraint or self-consciousness in her.  Arnold felt it.  She showed it in her eyes and in the touch of her fingers when he took her hand at parting.  It was then for the first time also that Arnold discovered a truth of overwhelming importance.  Every new fact—­everything which cannot be disputed or denied, is, we all know, of the most enormous importance.  He discovered no less a truth than that he was in love with Iris.  So important is this truth to a young man that it reduces the countless myriads of the world to a single pair—­himself and another; it converts the most arid waste of streets into an Eden; and it blinds the eyes to ambition, riches, and success.  Arnold sat down and reasoned out this truth.  He said coldly and “squarely:” 

“This is a girl whom I have known only a fortnight or so; she lives over a second-hand bookshop; she is a teacher by profession; she knows none of the ways of society; she would doubtless be guilty of all kinds of queer things, if she were suddenly introduced to good people; probably, she would never learn our manners,” with more to the same effect, which may be reasonably omitted.  Then his Conscience woke up, and said quite simply:  “Arnold, you are a liar.”  Conscience does sometimes call hard names.  She is feminine, and therefore privileged to call hard names.  Else we would sometimes kick and belabor Conscience.  “Arnold, don’t tell more lies.  You have been gradually learning to know Iris, through the wisest and sweetest letters that were ever written, for a whole year.  You gradually began to know her, in fact, when you first began to interlard your letters with conceited revelations about yourself.  You knew her to be sympathetic, quick, and of a most kind and tender heart.  You are quite sure, though you try to disguise the fact, that she is as honest as the day, and as true as steel.  As for her not being a lady, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for even thinking such a thing.  Has she not been tenderly