“That is strange! Who can it be?” “Who can it be? What do you mean?” “If you were thinking of me, it was in connection with some other person,--some other person of my own sex. It is certainly not poor dear Miss Brabazon. Who else can it be?” Again the red eye shot over me, and I felt my cheek redden beneath it. “Hush!” she said, lowering her voice; “you are in love!” “In love!--I! Permit me to ask you why you think so?” “The signs are unmistakable; you are altered in your manner, even in the expression of your face, since I last saw you; your manner is generally quiet and observant,--it is now restless and distracted; your expression of face is generally proud and serene,--it is now humbled and troubled. You have something on your mind! It is not anxiety for your reputation,--that is established; nor for your fortune,--that is made; it is not anxiety for a patient or you would scarcely be here. But anxiety it is,--an anxiety that is remote from your profession, that touches your heart and is new to it!” I was startled, almost awed; but I tried to cover my confusion with a forced laugh. “Profound observer! Subtle analyst! You have convinced me that I must be in love, though I did not suspect it before. But when I strive to conjecture the object, I am as much perplexed as yourself; and with you, I ask, who can it be?” “Whoever it be,” said Mrs. Poyntz, who had paused, while I spoke, from her knitting, and now resumed it very slowly and very carefully, as if her mind and her knitting worked in unison together,--“whoever it be, love in you would be serious; and, with or without love, marriage is a serious thing to us all. It is not every pretty girl that would suit Allen Fenwick.” “Alas! is there any pretty girl whom Allen Fenwick would suit?” “Tut! You should be above the fretful vanity that lays traps for a compliment. Yes; the time has come in your life and your career when you would do well to marry. I give my consent to that,” she added with a smile as if in jest, and a slight nod as if in earnest. The knitting here went on more decidedly, more quickly. “But I do not yet see the person. No! ‘T is a pity, Allen Fenwick” (whenever Mrs. Poyntz called me by my Christian name, she always assumed her majestic motherly manner),--“a pity that, with your birth, energies, perseverance, talents, and, let me add, your advantages of manner and person,--a pity that you did not choose a career that might achieve higher fortunes and louder fame than the most brilliant success can give to a provincial physician. But in that very choice you interest me. My choice has been much the same,--a small circle, but the first in it. Yet, had I been a man, or had my dear Colonel been a man whom it was in the power of a woman’s art to raise one step higher in that metaphorical ladder which is not the ladder of the angels, why, then--what then? No matter! I am contented. I transfer my ambition to Jane. Do you not think her handsome?”