"I have met him," returns he, "generally, I think, on tennis-grounds. He can run about a good deal, but it seems a pity to waste a good bat on him. He never hits a ball by any chance, and as for serving--I don't think I swore for six months until the last time I met him." "Why, what did he do?" "More than I can recall in a hurry. For one thing, he drank more tea than any four people together that ever I knew." "Was that all? I see no reason why any one should be ashamed of liking tea." "Neither do I. On the contrary, one should be proud of it. It betrays such meekness, such simplicity, such contentment. I myself am not fond of tea,--a fact I deplore morning, noon, and night." "It is a mere matter of education," says Georgie, laughing. "I used not to care for it, except at breakfast, and now I love it." "Do you? I wish with all my heart I was good souchong," says Mr. Branscombe, at which she laughs again. "One can't have all one's desires," she says. "Now, with me music is a passion; yet I have never heard any of the great singers of the age. Isn't that hard?" "For you it must be, indeed. But how is it you haven't?" "Because I have no time, no money, no--no anything." "What a hesitation! Tell me what the 'anything' stands for." "Well, I meant no home,--that is, no husband, I suppose," says Georgie. She is quite unconcerned, and smiles at him very prettily as she says it. Of the fact that he is actually in love with her, she is totally unaware. "That is a regret likely to be of short standing," he says, his eyes on hers. But her thoughts are far away, and she hardly heeds the warmth of his gaze or the evident meaning in his tone. "I suppose if I did marry somebody he would take me to hear all the great people?" she says, a little doubtfully, looking at him as though for confirmation of her hope. "I should think he would take you wherever you wanted to go, and to hear whatever you wished to hear," he says, slowly. "What a charming picture you conjure up!" says Georgie, looking at him. "You encourage me. The very first rich man that asks me to marry him, I shall say 'Yes' to." "You have made up your mind, then, to marry for money?" He is watching her closely, and his brow has contracted a good deal, and his lips show some pain. "I have made up my mind to nothing. Perhaps I haven't one to make up,"--lightly. "But I hate teaching, and I hate being poor. That is all. But we were not talking of that. We were thinking of Mr. Hastings. At all events, you must confess he reads well, and that is something! Almost everybody reads badly." "They do," says Branscombe, meekly. "I do. Unless in words of one syllable, I can't read at all. So the curate has the pull over me there. Indeed, I begin to feel myself nowhere beside the curate. He can read well, and drink tea well, and I can't do either."