“A land where learned men are captivated by blue eyes and rosy lips,” answered the doctor, looking down into her sparkling face.

As they stood together Beulah remarked how very much Pauline resembled him.  True, he was pale, and she was a very Hebe, but the dazzling transparency of the complexion was the same, the silky, nut-brown hair the same, and the classical chiseling of mouth and nose identical.  Her eyes were “deeply, darkly,” matchlessly blue, and his were hazel; her features were quivering with youthful joyousness and enthusiasm, his might have been carved in ivory, they seemed so inflexible; still they were alike.  Pauline did not exactly relish the tone of his reply, and said hastily: 

“Uncle Guy, I wish you would not treat me as if I were an idiot; or, what is not much better, a two-year-old child!  How am I ever to learn any sense?”

“Indeed, I have no idea,” said he, passing his soft hand over her glossy curls.

“You are very provoking!  Do you want Ernest to think me a fool?”

“Have you waked to a consciousness of that danger?”

“Yes; and I want you to teach me something.  Come, tell me what that thing is I asked you about.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why, what a—­a ‘Fourieristic-phalanx’ is?” said she earnestly.

Beulah could not avoid smiling, and wondered how he managed to look so very serious, as he replied: 

“I know very little about the tactics of Fourieristic-phalanxes, but believe a phalange is a community or association of about eighteen hundred persons, who were supposed or intended to practice the Fourieristic doctrines.  In fine, a phalange is a sort of French Utopia.”

“And where is that, sir?” asked Pauline innocently, without taking her eyes from his face.

“Utopia is situated in No-country, and its chief city is on the banks of the river Waterless.”

“Oh, Uncle Guy! how can you quiz me so unmercifully, when I ask you to explain things to me?”

“Why, Pauline, I am answering your questions correctly.  Sir Thomas More professed to describe Utopia, which means No-place, and mentions a river Waterless.  Don’t look so desperately lofty.  I will show you the book, if you are so incorrigibly stupid.”  He passed his arm round her as he spoke, and kept her close beside him.

“Mr. Lockhart, is he telling the truth?” cried she incredulously.

“Certainly he is,” answered her stepfather, smiling.

“Oh, I don’t believe either of you!  You two think that I am simple enough to believe any absurdity you choose to tell me.  Beulah, what is Utopia?”

“Just what your uncle told you.  More used Greek words which signified nothing, in order to veil the satire.”

“Oh, a satire!  Now, what is the reason you could not say it was a satire, you wiseacre?”

“Because I gave you credit for some penetration, and at least common sense.”