’And throng to her, sigh to her, you that can breach
      The ice-wall that guards her securely;
     You have not such bliss, though she smile on you each,
      As the heart that can image her purely.’

“Wasn’t Sandoe once a friend of my father’s?  I suppose they quarrelled.  He understands the heart.  What does he make his ‘Humble Lover’ say?

     ’True, Madam, you may think to part
      Conditions by a glacier-ridge,
     But Beauty’s for the largest heart,
      And all abysses Love can bridge!

“Hippias now laughed; grimly, as men laugh at the emptiness of words.”

“Largest heart!” he sneered.  “What’s a ‘glacier-ridge’?  I’ve never seen one.  I can’t deny it rhymes with ‘bridge.’  But don’t go parading your admiration of that person, Richard.  Your father will speak to you on the subject when he thinks fit.”

“I thought they had quarrelled,” said Richard.  “What a pity!” and he murmured to a pleased ear: 

        “Beauty’s for the largest heart!”

The flow of their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of passengers at a station.  Richard examined their faces with pleasure.  All faces pleased him.  Human nature sat tributary at the feet of him and his Golden Bride.  As he could not well talk his thoughts before them, he looked out at the windows, and enjoyed the changing landscape, projecting all sorts of delights for his old friend Ripton, and musing hazily on the wondrous things he was to do in the world; of the great service he was to be to his fellow-creatures.  In the midst of his reveries he was landed in London.  Tom Bakewell stood at the carriage door.  A glance told Richard that his squire had something curious on his mind; and he gave Tom the word to speak out.  Tom edged his master out of hearing, and began sputtering a laugh.

“Dash’d if I can help it, sir!” he said.  “That young Tom!  He’ve come to town dressed that spicy! and he don’t know his way about no more than a stag.  He’s come to fetch somebody from another rail, and he don’t know how to get there, and he ain’t sure about which rail ’tis.  Look at him, Mr. Richard!  There he goes.”

Young Tom appeared to have the weight of all London on his beaver.

“Who has he come for?” Richard asked.

“Don’t you know, sir?  You don’t like me to mention the name,” mumbled Tom, bursting to be perfectly intelligible.

“Is it for her, Tom?”

“Miss Lucy, sir.”

Richard turned away, and was seized by Hippias, who begged him to get out of the noise and pother, and caught hold of his slack arm to bear him into a conveyance; but Richard, by wheeling half to the right, or left, always got his face round to the point where young Tom was manoeuvring to appear at his ease.  Even when they were seated in the conveyance, Hippias could not persuade him to drive off.  He made the excuse that he did not wish to start till there was a clear road.  At last young Tom cast anchor by a policeman, and, doubtless at the official’s suggestion, bashfully took seat in a cab, and was shot into the whirlpool of London.  Richard then angrily asked his driver what he was waiting for.