This last observation will enable the reader to comprehend how hopelessly in love Geoffrey must have been. But he was not even embarrassed at his condition; he prided himself on it, as if no one had ever thoroughly sounded the depths of the master passion before him. No; neither poetry, romance, nor history were able to furnish him with a parallel to his love; he had practically invented it. 'Not that I take any credit to myself for that,' he would protest modestly to solitude; 'no doubt there have been plenty of fellows who had as much capacity for love as I--or nearly as much. But then I always have the advantage of them in this--that I love Ellice! and that is enough to make a Titan out of a pigmy.' In short, Geoffrey was well content, and convinced that the universe must have been after all created by a personal and benevolent God; though in his former days he had shared the doubts of the late Mr. Mill and others on that subject. He even found latent charms in poor old Mr. Quentin, who was the father of all fascination, and must therefore have it in him somewhere. Mr. Quentin talked about his 'claim' after dinner, with a sort of sapient vapidity of tone and phrase; and pointed out to Geoffrey how probable it was, after all, that his long-baffled hopes would be realised. Geoffrey said that no doubt it was probable enough. He was thinking of Ellice, and arguing that a world which could produce her could surely produce so comparatively contemptible a miracle as the success of Mr. Quentin's suit. It would be little less than a miracle if it occurred. Geoffrey, who, from friendly motives, had at one time investigated the matter almost as thoroughly as a solicitor could have done, knew enough about it to know that. Nevertheless, he now, in the opulence of his felicity, agreed with Mr. Quentin, that all might turn out as he wished. Mr. Quentin, who had great faith in the judgments of those who agreed with him, mentioned what Geoffrey had said to Ellice the next morning. Ellice, who was lifting spoonfuls of coffee from her cup and letting them trickle back again, replaced her spoon quietly in the saucer on hearing this, and became meditative, with chin on hand and downcast eyes. 'What would you do if you got this property, father?' she enquired after a while. 'Take you up to London, and present you to our gracious Sovereign, and let you mingle among those to whose rank in life you were born,' replied he eloquently. 'As for myself,' he continued, lifting up his double chin and settling his stock, 'I shall--should enter Parliament and--and----'