‘Yes, Crœsus has generally a wideish circle—not the best people, possibly, but plenty of them. But I don’t think all the wealth of the Indies—the peacock throne of the great Mogul, and so on—would make any difference in my desire to come here. No, Justina, were the chief of the Rothschilds to transfer his balance to my account to-morrow I should drop in all the same for my afternoon refresher, as regularly as five o’clock struck.’ They had talked of literature and poetry, and fully discussed that new poet whose book Justina had wept over, but by no word had Maurice hinted at his identity with the writer. He liked to hear her speculate upon that unknown poet—wondering what he was like—setting up her ideal image of him. One day he made her describe what manner of man she imagined the author of ‘A Life Picture;’ but she found it difficult to reduce her fancies to words. ‘I cannot compliment you on the clearness of your delineation,’ he said. ‘I haven’t yet arrived at the faintest notion of your ideal poet. If you could compare him to any one we know, it might help me out. Is he like Mr. Flittergilt, the dramatist?’ ‘Mr. Flittergilt,’ she cried, contemptuously. ‘Mr. Flittergilt, who is always making bad puns, and talking of his own successes, and telling us that clever remark he made yesterday!’ ‘Not like Flittergilt? Has he any resemblance to me, for instance?’ Justina laughed, and shook her head—a very positive shake. ‘No, you are too light-hearted for a poet. You take life too easily. You seem too happy.’ ‘In your presence, Justina. You never see me in my normal condition,’ remonstrated Maurice, laughing. ‘No, I cannot fancy the author of that poem at all like you. He is a man who has suffered.’ Maurice sighed. ‘And you think I have never suffered?’ ‘He must be a man who has loved a false and foolish woman, and who has been stung to the quick by remorse for his own weakness.’ ‘Ah, we are all of us weak once in our lives, and apt to be deceived, Justina. Happy the man who knows no second weakness, and is not twice deceived.’ He said this gravely enough for poet and thinker. Justina looked at him with a puzzled expression. ‘Now you seem quite a different person,’ she said. ‘I could almost fancy you capable of being a poet. I know there are glimpses of poetry in your talk sometimes.’ ‘When I talk to you, Justina. Some people have an influence that is almost inspiration. All manner of bright thoughts come to me when you and I are together.’