‘I wish you were, then.’

‘Perhaps you do.  But I am not, you see.’

’Of course not, you are always so provoking.  Owen, I saw a man in the street to-day whom I fancied was he—­and yet, I don’t see how it could be, either.  He had light brown hair, a snub nose, very round face, and a peculiar habit of reducing his eyes to straight lines when he looked narrowly at anything.’

‘O no.  That was not he, Cytherea.’

‘Not a bit like him in all probability.’

’Not a bit.  He has dark hair—­almost a Grecian nose, regular teeth, and an intellectual face, as nearly as I can recall to mind.’

’Ah, there now, Owen, you have described him!  But I suppose he’s not generally called pleasing, or—­’

‘Handsome?’

’I scarcely meant that.  But since you have said it, is he handsome?’

‘Rather.’

‘His tout ensemble is striking?’

’Yes—­O no, no—­I forgot:  it is not.  He is rather untidy in his waistcoat, and neck-ties, and hair.’

‘How vexing! . . . it must be to himself, poor thing.’

’He’s a thorough bookworm—­despises the pap-and-daisy school of verse—­knows Shakespeare to the very dregs of the foot-notes.  Indeed, he’s a poet himself in a small way.’

‘How delicious!’ she said.  ‘I have never known a poet.’

‘And you don’t know him,’ said Owen dryly.

She reddened.  ‘Of course I don’t.  I know that.’

‘Have you received any answer to your advertisement?’ he inquired.

‘Ah—­no!’ she said, and the forgotten disappointment which had showed itself in her face at different times during the day, became visible again.

Another day passed away.  On Thursday, without inquiry, she learnt more of the head draughtsman.  He and Graye had become very friendly, and he had been tempted to show her brother a copy of some poems of his—­some serious and sad—­some humorous—­which had appeared in the poets’ corner of a magazine from time to time.  Owen showed them now to Cytherea, who instantly began to read them carefully and to think them very beautiful.

‘Yes—­Springrove’s no fool,’ said Owen sententiously.

‘No fool!—­I should think he isn’t, indeed,’ said Cytherea, looking up from the paper in quite an excitement:  ’to write such verses as these!’

’What logic are you chopping, Cytherea?  Well, I don’t mean on account of the verses, because I haven’t read them; but for what he said when the fellows were talking about falling in love.’

‘Which you will tell me?’

’He says that your true lover breathlessly finds himself engaged to a sweetheart, like a man who has caught something in the dark.  He doesn’t know whether it is a bat or a bird, and takes it to the light when he is cool to learn what it is.  He looks to see if she is the right age, but right age or wrong age, he must consider her a prize.  Sometime later he ponders whether she is the right kind of prize for him.  Right kind or wrong kind—­he has called her his, and must abide by it.  After a time he asks himself, “Has she the temper, hair, and eyes I meant to have, and was firmly resolved not to do without?” He finds it is all wrong, and then comes the tussle—­’