“Those are not quite the correct qualities for a man to be loved for,” said Stephen, in rather a dissatisfied tone of self-criticism. “Well, never mind. I must ask your father to allow us to be engaged directly we get indoors. It will be for a long time.”
“I like it the better. … Stephen, don’t mention it till tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because, if he should object—I don’t think he will; but if he should—we shall have a day longer of happiness from our ignorance. … Well, what are you thinking of so deeply?”
“I was thinking how my dear friend Knight would enjoy this scene. I wish he could come here.”
“You seem very much engrossed with him,” she answered, with a jealous little toss. “He must be an interesting man to take up so much of your attention.”
“Interesting!” said Stephen, his face glowing with his fervour; “noble, you ought to say.”
“Oh yes, yes; I forgot,” she said half satirically. “The noblest man in England, as you told us last night.”
“He is a fine fellow, laugh as you will, Miss Elfie.”
“I know he is your hero. But what does he do? anything?”
“He writes.”
“What does he write? I have never heard of his name.”
“Because his personality, and that of several others like him, is absorbed into a huge we, namely, the impalpable entity called The Present—a social and literary Review.”
“Is he only a reviewer?”
“Only, Elfie! Why, I can tell you it is a fine thing to be on the staff of The Present. Finer than being a novelist considerably.”
“That’s a hit at me, and my poor Court of Kellyon Castle.”
“No, Elfride,” he whispered; “I didn’t mean that. I mean that he is really a literary man of some eminence, and not altogether a reviewer. He writes things of a higher class than reviews, though he reviews a book occasionally. His ordinary productions are social and ethical essays—all that The Present contains which is not literary reviewing.”
“I admit he must be talented if he writes for The Present. We have it sent to us irregularly. I want papa to be a subscriber, but he’s so conservative. Now the next point in this Mr. Knight—I suppose he is a very good man.”
“An excellent man. I shall try to be his intimate friend some day.”
“But aren’t you now?”
“No; not so much as that,” replied Stephen, as if such a supposition were extravagant. “You see, it was in this way—he came originally from the same place as I, and taught me things; but I am not intimate with him. Shan’t I be glad when I get richer and better known, and hob and nob with him!” Stephen’s eyes sparkled.
A pout began to shape itself upon Elfride’s soft lips. “You think always of him, and like him better than you do me!”
“No, indeed, Elfride. The feeling is different quite. But I do like him, and he deserves even more affection from me than I give.”
“You are not nice now, and you make me as jealous as possible!” she exclaimed perversely. “I know you will never speak to any third person of me so warmly as you do to me of him.”
“But you don’t understand, Elfride,” he said with an anxious movement. “You shall know him some day. He is so brilliant—no, it isn’t exactly brilliant; so thoughtful—nor does thoughtful express him—that it would charm you to talk to him. He’s a most desirable friend, and that isn’t half I could say.”
“I don’t care how good he is; I don’t want to know him, because he comes between me and you. You think of him night and day, ever so much more than of anybody else; and when you are thinking of him, I am shut out of your mind.”
“No, dear Elfride; I love you dearly.”
“And I don’t like you to tell me so warmly about him when you are in the middle of loving me. Stephen, suppose that I and this man Knight of yours were both drowning, and you could only save one of us—”
“Yes—the stupid old proposition—which would I save?”
“Well, which? Not me.”
“Both of you,” he said, pressing her pendent hand.
“No, that won’t do; only one of us.”
“I cannot say; I don’t know. It is disagreeable—quite a horrid idea to have to handle.”
“A-ha, I know. You would save him, and let me drown, drown, drown; and I don’t care about your love!”
She had endeavoured to give a playful tone to her words, but the latter speech was rather forced in its gaiety.
At this point in the discussion she trotted off to turn a corner which was avoided by the footpath, the road and the path reuniting at a point a little further on. On again making her appearance she continually managed to look in a direction away from him, and left him in the cool shade of her displeasure. Stephen was soon beaten at this game of indifference. He went round and entered the range of her vision.
“Are you offended, Elfie? Why don’t you talk?”
“Save me, then, and let that Mr. Clever of yours drown. I hate him. Now, which would you?”
“Really, Elfride, you should not press such a hard question. It is ridiculous.”
“Then I won’t be alone with you any more. Unkind, to wound me so!” She laughed at her own absurdity but persisted.
“Come, Elfie, let’s make it up and be friends.”
“Say you would save me, then, and let him drown.”
“I would save you—and him too.”
“And let him drown. Come, or you don’t love me!” she teasingly went on.
“And let him drown,” he ejaculated despairingly.
“There; now I am yours!” she said, and a woman’s flush of triumph lit her eyes.
“Only one earring, miss, as I’m alive,” said Unity on their entering the hall.
With a face expressive of wretched misgiving, Elfride’s hand flew like an arrow to her ear.
“There!” she exclaimed to Stephen, looking at him with eyes full of
