“The beautiful gazing at the beautiful!” said Chapman, with his eyes so fixed as to receive his view of the landscape (if at all) by deputy. And truly his judgment was correct. For Alice, now in perfect health, with all the grace of young vigour and the charm of natural quickness, and a lovely face, and calm eyes beaming, not with the bright uncertain blue (that flashing charm of poor Hilary), but the grand ash-coloured grey--the tint that deepens with the depth of life, and holds more love than any other--Alice, in a word, was something for a man to look at. The greatest man that ever was born of a woman, and knew what women are, as well as what a man is; the only one who ever combined the knowledge of both sexes; the one true poet of all ages (compared with whom all other poets are but shallow surfacers), Nature’s most loving and best-loved child,--even he would have looked at Alice, with those large sad loving eyes, and found her good to dwell upon. The Captain (though he bore the name of a great and grossly-neglected poet) had not in him so much as half a pennyweight of poetry. He looked upon Alice as a handsome girl, of good birth and good abilities, who might redeem him from his evil ways, and foster him, and make much of him. He knew that she was far above him, “in mind, and views, and all that sort of thing;” and he liked her all the more for that, because it would save him trouble. “Do let me say a few words to you,” he began, with his most seductive and insinuating glance (for he really had fine eyes, as many weak and wanton people have); “you are apt to be hard on me, Miss Lorraine, while all the time my first desire is to please, and serve, and gratify you.” “You are very kind, I am sure, Captain Chapman. I don’t know what I have done to deserve it.” “Alas!” he answered with a sigh, which relieved him, because he was much pinched in, as well as a good deal out of breath, for his stays were tighter than the maiden’s. “Alas! Is it possible that you have not seen the misery you have caused me?” “Yes, I know that I have been very rude. I have walked too fast for you. I beg your pardon, Captain Chapman. I will not do so any more.” “I did not mean that; I assure you, I didn’t. I would climb the Andes or the Himalayas, only to win one smile from you.” “I fear that I should smile many times,” said Alice, now smiling, wickedly; “if I could only have a telescope--still, I should be so sorry for you. They are much worse than the Southdown hills.” “There, you are laughing at me again! You are so clever, Miss Lorraine; you give me no chance to say anything.” “I am not clever; I am very stupid. And you always say more than I do.” “Well, of course--of course I do; until you come to know me. After that, I always listen; because the ladies have more to say. And they say it so much better.”