Thus musing, as she waited for his return in the evening, her eyes fell on her left hand.  The contemplation of her own left fourth finger by symbol-loving girlhood of this age is, it seems, very frequently, if not always, followed by a peculiar train of romantic ideas.  Cytherea’s thoughts, still playing about her future, became directed into this romantic groove.  She leant back in her chair, and taking hold of the fourth finger, which had attracted her attention, she lifted it with the tips of the others, and looked at the smooth and tapering member for a long time.

She whispered idly, ’I wonder who and what he will be?

’If he’s a gentleman of fashion, he will take my finger so, just with the tips of his own, and with some fluttering of the heart, and the least trembling of his lip, slip the ring so lightly on that I shall hardly know it is there—­looking delightfully into my eyes all the time.

’If he’s a bold, dashing soldier, I expect he will proudly turn round, take the ring as if it equalled her Majesty’s crown in value, and desperately set it on my finger thus.  He will fix his eyes unflinchingly upon what he is doing—­just as if he stood in battle before the enemy (though, in reality, very fond of me, of course), and blush as much as I shall.

’If he’s a sailor, he will take my finger and the ring in this way, and deck it out with a housewifely touch and a tenderness of expression about his mouth, as sailors do:  kiss it, perhaps, with a simple air, as if we were children playing an idle game, and not at the very height of observation and envy by a great crowd saying, “Ah! they are happy now!”

’If he should be rather a poor man—­noble-minded and affectionate, but still poor—­’

Owen’s footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs, interrupted this fancy-free meditation.  Reproaching herself, even angry with herself for allowing her mind to stray upon such subjects in the face of their present desperate condition, she rose to meet him, and make tea.

Cytherea’s interest to know how her brother had been received at Mr. Gradfield’s broke forth into words at once.  Almost before they had sat down to table, she began cross-examining him in the regular sisterly way.

’Well, Owen, how has it been with you to-day?  What is the place like—­do you think you will like Mr. Gradfield?’

’O yes.  But he has not been there to-day; I have only had the head draughtsman with me.’

Young women have a habit, not noticeable in men, of putting on at a moment’s notice the drama of whosoever’s life they choose.  Cytherea’s interest was transferred from Mr. Gradfield to his representative.

‘What sort of a man is he?’

’He seems a very nice fellow indeed; though of course I can hardly tell to a certainty as yet.  But I think he’s a very worthy fellow; there’s no nonsense in him, and though he is not a public school man he has read widely, and has a sharp appreciation of what’s good in books and art.  In fact, his knowledge isn’t nearly so exclusive as most professional men’s.’