But Perry-Morton was none of those. He was like the Archduke in the French comic opera, nothing unless he was original; and it was only reasonable to suppose that he would bring his great artistic mind to bear upon so important a part of his life as the choice of an Eve for his modern-antique paradise. He did his wooing, then, in a way of his own, and came nightly to beam upon the object of his worship. This he did in attitudes of his own designing, while Cynthia felt as if, to use her own words, she should like to stick pins in the man's back. For Perry-Morton's love seemed to emanate from him in a phosphorescent fashion. He became lambent with softly luminous smiles. His plump face shone with a calm ethereal satisfaction, and of all men in the world he seemed most happy. He did not trouble Julia much, only with his presence. He would lay a finger on the back of her chair, and pose himself like a sculptor's idea of one of the fat gods in the Greek Pantheon--say Bacchus, before too much grape-juice had begun to interfere with the proper working of his digestive organs. Or before the first wanderings of his very severe attacks of D.T., which must have caused so much consternation and dismay in Olympus' pleasant groves, and bothered Aesculapius, who applied leeches, because he would not own to his ignorance of the new disease. He never kissed Julia once, so Cynthia declared. It is open to doubt whether he ever pressed her hand. His was the kiss-the-hem-of-the-lady's-garment style of love, and he once terribly alarmed Julia by gracefully reclining at her feet, with one arm resting upon a footstool, and gazing blandly in her face. At other times he seemed to love her from a distance--getting into far-off corners of the room, and gazing from different points of view, standing, sitting, lying on sofas--always gracefully and in the most sculpturesque fashion. In fact, Artingale in great disgust wondered why he did not try standing on his head: but that was absurd. As the day fixed for the wedding drew near, Perry-Morton was most regular in his visits--most devoted, and his lambent softness seemed to pervade the parental drawing-rooms. Meanwhile Julia went about like one in a dream. She was less hysterical and timid than she had been for many weeks past, and finding that her lover troubled her so little, she bore his presence patiently, delighting him, as he confided to Cynthia, by her "heavenly calm." "I don't think she's well," said Cynthia, shortly.