‘His name is Springrove,’ said Owen, in reply to her. ‘He is a thorough artist, but a man of rather humble origin, it seems, who has made himself so far. I think he is the son of a farmer, or something of the kind.’ ‘Well, he’s none the worse for that, I suppose.’ ‘None the worse. As we come down the hill, we shall be continually meeting people going up.’ But Owen had felt that Springrove was a little the worse nevertheless. ‘Of course he’s rather old by this time.’ ‘O no. He’s about six-and-twenty--not more.’ ‘Ah, I see.... What is he like, Owen?’ ‘I can’t exactly tell you his appearance: ‘tis always such a difficult thing to do.’ ‘A man you would describe as short? Most men are those we should describe as short, I fancy.’ ‘I should call him, I think, of the middle height; but as I only see him sitting in the office, of course I am not certain about his form and figure.’ ‘I wish you were, then.’ ‘Perhaps you do. But I am not, you see.’ ‘Of course not, you are always so provoking. Owen, I saw a man in the street to-day whom I fancied was he--and yet, I don’t see how it could be, either. He had light brown hair, a snub nose, very round face, and a peculiar habit of reducing his eyes to straight lines when he looked narrowly at anything.’ ‘O no. That was not he, Cytherea.’ ‘Not a bit like him in all probability.’ ‘Not a bit. He has dark hair--almost a Grecian nose, regular teeth, and an intellectual face, as nearly as I can recall to mind.’ ‘Ah, there now, Owen, you _have_ described him! But I suppose he’s not generally called pleasing, or--’ ‘Handsome?’ ‘I scarcely meant that. But since you have said it, is he handsome?’ ‘Rather.’ ‘His tout ensemble is striking?’ ‘Yes--O no, no--I forgot: it is not. He is rather untidy in his waistcoat, and neck-ties, and hair.’ ‘How vexing!... it must be to himself, poor thing.’ ‘He’s a thorough bookworm--despises the pap-and-daisy school of verse--knows Shakespeare to the very dregs of the foot-notes. Indeed, he’s a poet himself in a small way.’ ‘How delicious!’ she said. ‘I have never known a poet.’ ‘And you don’t know him,’ said Owen dryly. She reddened. ‘Of course I don’t. I know that.’ ‘Have you received any answer to your advertisement?’ he inquired. ‘Ah--no!’ she said, and the forgotten disappointment which had showed itself in her face at different times during the day, became visible again. Another day passed away. On Thursday, without inquiry, she learnt more of the head draughtsman. He and Graye had become very friendly, and he had been tempted to show her brother a copy of some poems of his--some serious and sad--some humorous--which had appeared in the poets’ corner of a magazine from time to time. Owen showed them now to Cytherea, who instantly began to read them carefully and to think them very beautiful. ‘Yes--Springrove’s no fool,’ said Owen sententiously.