‘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!’      

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