“Not that people in general should admire her, but that I should.  But I want to tell you; I want to tell some one, and I can’t tell Miss Garland herself.  She thinks me already a horrid false creature, and if I were to express to her frankly what I think of her, I should simply disgust her.  She would be quite right; she has repose, and from that point of view I and my doings must seem monstrous.  Unfortunately, I have n’t repose.  I am trembling now; if I could ask you to feel my arm, you would see!  But I want to tell you that I admire Miss Garland more than any of the people who call themselves her friends—­except of course you.  Oh, I know that!  To begin with, she is extremely handsome, and she does n’t know it.”

“She is not generally thought handsome,” said Rowland.

“Evidently!  That ’s the vulgarity of the human mind.  Her head has great character, great natural style.  If a woman is not to be a supreme beauty in the regular way, she will choose, if she ’s wise, to look like that.  She ’ll not be thought pretty by people in general, and desecrated, as she passes, by the stare of every vile wretch who chooses to thrust his nose under her bonnet; but a certain number of superior people will find it one of the delightful things of life to look at her.  That lot is as good as another!  Then she has a beautiful character!”

“You found that out soon!” said Rowland, smiling.

“How long did it take you?  I found it out before I ever spoke to her.  I met her the other day in Saint Peter’s; I knew it then.  I knew it—­do you want to know how long I have known it?”

“Really,” said Rowland, “I did n’t mean to cross-examine you.”

“Do you remember mamma’s ball in December?  We had some talk and you then mentioned her—­not by name.  You said but three words, but I saw you admired her, and I knew that if you admired her she must have a beautiful character.  That ’s what you require!”

“Upon my word,” cried Rowland, “you make three words go very far!”

“Oh, Mr. Hudson has also spoken of her.”

“Ah, that ’s better!” said Rowland.

“I don’t know; he does n’t like her.”

“Did he tell you so?” The question left Rowland’s lips before he could stay it, which he would have done on a moment’s reflection.

Christina looked at him intently.  “No!” she said at last.  “That would have been dishonorable, would n’t it?  But I know it from my knowledge of him.  He does n’t like perfection; he is not bent upon being safe, in his likings; he ’s willing to risk something!  Poor fellow, he risks too much!”

Rowland was silent; he did not care for the thrust; but he was profoundly mystified.  Christina beckoned to her poodle, and the dog marched stiffly across to her.  She gave a loving twist to his rose-colored top-knot, and bade him go and fetch her burnous.  He obeyed, gathered it up in his teeth, and returned with great solemnity, dragging it along the floor.