“And married to—­”

“And married to the Lady Sophia?”

“Infinitely!” said I.

“Then your cousin, so far as you are concerned, is free to woo and win her and your uncle’s fortune?”

“And I wish him well of his bargain!” I nodded.  “As for me, I shall probably continue to live here, and make horseshoes —­wifeless and content.”

“Is marriage so hateful to you?”

“In the abstract—­no; for in my mind there exists a woman whom I think I could love—­very greatly; but, in the actual—­yes, because there is no woman in all the world that is like this woman of my mind.”

“Is she so flawlessly perfect—­this imaginary woman?”

“She is one whom I would respect for her intellect.”

“Yes.”

“Whom I would honor for her proud virtue.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Whom I would worship for her broad charity, her gentleness, and spotless purity.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“And love with all my strength, for her warm, sweet womanhood—­in a word, she is the epitome of all that is true and womanly!”

“That is to say—­as you understand such things, sir, and all your knowledge of woman, and her virtues and failings, you have learned from your books, therefore, misrepresented by history, and distorted by romance, it is utterly false and unreal.  And, of course, this imaginary creature of yours is ethereal, bloodless, sexless, unnatural, and quite impossible!”

Now, when she spoke thus, I laid down my pipe and stared, but, before I could get my breath, she began again, with curling lip and lashes that drooped disdainfully.

“I quite understand that there can be no woman worthy of Mr. Peter Vibart—­she whom he would honor with marriage must be specially created for him!  Ah! but some day a woman—­a real, live woman—­will come into his life, and the touch of her hand, the glance of her eyes, the warmth of her breath, will dispel this poor, flaccid, misty creature of his imagination, who will fade and fade, and vanish into nothingness.  And when the real woman has shown him how utterly false and impossible this dream woman was—­then, Mr. Peter Vibart, I hope she will laugh at you —­as I do, and turn her back upon you—­as I do, and leave you —­for the very superior, very pedantic pedant that you are—­and scorn you—­as I do, most of all because you are merely a —­creature!” With the word, she flung up her head and stamped her foot at me, and turning, swept out through the open door into the moonlight.

“Creature?” said I, and so sat staring at the table, and the walls, and the floor, and the rafters in a blank amazement.

But in a while, my amazement growing, I went and stood in the doorway, looking at Charmian, but saying nothing.

And, as I watched, she began to sing softly to herself, and, putting up her hand, drew the comb from her hair so that it fell down, rippling about her neck and shoulders.  And, singing softly thus, she shook her hair about her, so that I saw it curled far below her waist; stooped her head, and, parting it upon her neck, drew it over either shoulder, whence it flowed far down over her bosom in two glorious waves, for the moon, peeping through the rift in the leaves above, sent down her beams to wake small fires in it, that came and went, and winked with her breathing.