intellectual, intensely intellectual, and poetic. You always look at the glorified side of things. You are a poet.' He stared at her. He forgot everything, and stared at her. When he recovered himself he replied nervously, hesitatingly, diffidently,-- 'I-I assure you, Miss Gordon, I never wrote a line of poetry in my life--never even thought of such a thing.' 'It isn't necessary a poet should write poetry. He may think it.' 'But I assure you I have never even thought a line of poetry in my life.' 'Yes, you have. You thought poetry to-day at dinner, and were too shy to speak it.' Again he forgot everything, and stared. A criminal caught red-handed could not have been more amazed with fear. He had never been accused of poetry before, and her words were like heartless revellers who broke into the sanctuary of his soul, tore from it his most sacred secret, and set it up in the marketplace to be jeered at by all the town. She laughed softly. 'There is no witchery in it. I told you you were not intelligent, but you were intellectual. I am not intellectual, but I am intelligent. You are intellectual and a poet. I am intelligent, and I found you out.'

CHAPTER III.

IN THE CHURCHYARD.

'As you people live here in England,' said Nevill, next morning at breakfast, 'this meal is the gloomiest, dinner is the solemnest, and supper is the sleepiest of the day. I can always understand a man being gloomy in the morning, but why people should be solemn at dinner and sleepy at supper I never could make out. The only way I can come near accounting for a man being solemn at dinner is because it is the most expensive meal of the day, and there is no way in the world so good for knocking the fun out of John Bull as to bleed him. But why people should look sleepy at supper licks me hollow!' 'Perhaps, sir,' said the solid-looking man, 'it is because the people are sleepy.' 'From what I know of Mr Nevill,' said Miss Gordon, 'I don't think he will be satisfied with a straightforward answer like that.' 'This very straightforwardness is the curse of the English character,' answered Nevill. 'To tell the plain truth, right out, is the impulse of a savage. To conceal all that is unpleasant, because it may give pain to others, is the perfection of culture. Why on earth should straightforwardness or any other virtue come stamping on my corns? I know, for instance, that my nose is not Roman. But that is no reason why Mr Straightforwardness should come and say to me, "Sir, you have a snub nose, not to say a cocked nose." No, Miss Gordon; give me the man who uses his wits to make those around him pleasant.' 'Do you,' asked Miss Gordon, 'practise what you preach?' 'In a humble way,' with a bow. 'And do you think you are adding to the pleasure of a company of English men and women, by attacking the character of the whole nation?' 'Undoubtedly.' 'But how?' 'A lady who has been a great traveller like you, Miss Gordon, must know that all our pleasures, or nearly all, are derived from thinking of other people or things; all our pains arise from thinking of ourselves. A comedy, a tragedy, a marriage, or an execution amuses us equally, because it makes us forget ourselves. But when we are compelled to think of ourselves by debt or pain, we are no longer happy. The debt or pain of other people is a source of diversion to us.' 'But, sir,' said the solid-looking man, 'I can't see how that is a reply to Miss Gordon's question.' 'It is not a direct reply, I own. But you may, sir, deduce the reply from it.' 'I confess I can't.' 'Well, you are an Englishman. I attack your race. That takes your mind off yourself by making it turn towards your race, and making you individually hate me.' 'That is not an ordinary theory.' 'Ordinary theories are, sir, never sound.' 'Mr Nevill,' said Miss Gordon, 'you are a great traveller.' 'Yes, I have been about a bit; but I'm not old, and I intend doing better before I die.' 'Are you a good linguist?' 'No. Don't speak a word of any language but English.' 'There is a general theory that linguists have prominent eyes. Now you have no talent for languages, and your eyes are not prominent.' There was a general laugh, in which he joined. 'Don't you think, sir,' said the solid-looking man, 'that when foreigners are travelling in out-of-the-way places, where they can find no one who speaks their language, they are grossly imposed on by the hotel-keepers?' 'I daresay many are imposed upon; but I, never.' 'And,' said Miss Gordon vivaciously, 'how do you manage to escape?' 'My mode is one few would care to adopt; but it is most effectual: 'Before I make signs to them I want the bill, I become erratic for awhile. Then I show them I wish to pay. Then I become moody. When they hand me the bill, I take out a revolver, and begin chanting the multiplication in English. I have tried cursing and swearing at them, but nothing is half so good as the multiplication chanted in a low voice. The effect is weird and confounding. They don't know whether I am going to shoot one of them or myself; they don't know whether I am sane or mad. They are sure of only one thing--that they wish I'd go. When I have treated them to about ten minutes of this, I put the revolver in my pocket, and tender them what I think fair. If they show hesitation, I go back to my old device, and starve them out.' 'You are joking,' said Mrs Barclay, from behind the tea-urn. 'Not at all, Mrs Barclay; and if there are any irregularities in your account, I'll treat you to a specimen of my method. If you have a doubt of the matter, ask Mr Osborne. He has seen me do the thing a thousand times.' Miss Gordon smiled, and said,-- 'As Mr Nevill never met Mr Osborne until yesterday, I don't think you need, Mrs Barclay, be in great dread, if you cannot believe without his evidence.' 'What are you going to do to-day, Osborne?' asked Nevill. 'I think I shall spend the day in St Paul's.' 'Spend the day in St Paul's! Why, bless my soul, man, you don't mean to say they have still the power of doing that sort of thing here?' 'What sort of thing?' asked Osborne. 'The power of sending a man to a church for a whole day. Are you to sit on a stool of repentance, with a white sheet around you and a lighted candle in your hand?' 'Do you really intend spending a whole day over St Paul's?' asked Miss Gordon, with a look of interest. 'I do,' answered Osborne. Mrs Barclay glanced at the girl, and asked,-- 'Would you like to go?' 'Very much indeed.' 'Then perhaps you will take her, Mr Osborne?' He grew red and uncomfortable, and stammered out,-- 'Certainly, with great pleasure.' 'What! Miss Gordon!' cried Nevill, in amazement. 'You promised me last night to come and have a look at Brighton with me to-day!' 'I prefer going to St Paul's.' 'And you break your agreement with me?' 'Yes.' With a sigh and a laugh close together. 'Upon my word, that is too bad. I never was so badly treated in all my life. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?' 'Not in the least; because, you see, I prefer going to St Paul's. I should be very much ashamed of going to Brighton when I wanted to go to St Paul's, and could go.' 'Miss Gordon, may I ask you how old you are?' 'Certainly. I am four-and-twenty. Why do you ask?' 'What a remarkable woman you will be when you are forty-eight?' 'In what way do you think I shall be remarkable? 'In strength of mind, and all that. Tell me, do you go in for woman's rights?' 'I think women ought not to be fools.' 'Why?' 'Because it is ridiculous to be a fool.' 'But fools are often more happy then wise people.' 'Yes; but happiness is a brute quality, and I care for nothing but intellect.' Nevill shook his head, and laughed good-humouredly. 'Miss Gordon, take my word for it, you will be an ornament to the woman's rights' platform before you are fifty years of age.' While this dialogue was going on George Osborne thought to himself: 'What an awkward