He saw Clare Rossiter twice during this time and, on each occasion, it seemed to him that she was trying to make up to him for his awkwardness at their first meeting. On the first of these two occasions she had only a few words with him, but there was a note in her voice that he fancied, wildly, unreasonably, was different from the tone that she used to other people. She looked so beautiful with her golden hair coiled above her head. It was the most wonderful gold that he had ever seen. He could only, in his excitement, think of marmalade and that was a sticky comparison. “The Lady with the Marmalade Hair”--how monstrous! but that did convey the colour. Her eyes seemed darker now than they had been before and her cheeks whiter. The curve of her neck was so wonderful that it hurt him physically. He wanted so terribly to kiss her just beneath her ear. He saw how he would do it, and that he would have to move away some of the shiny hair that strayed like sunlight across the white skin. She did not seem to him quite so tiny when she smiled; it was exactly as water ripples when the sun suddenly bursts dark clouds. He had a thousand comparisons for her, and then sometimes she would be, as it were, caught up into a cloud and he would only see a general radiance and be blinded by the light. He wished very much that he could think of something else--something other than marmalade--that had that quality of gold. He often imagined what it would be like when she let it all down--like a forest of autumn trees--no, that spoke of decay--like the sunlight on sand towards evening--like the fires of Walhalla in the last act of Gotterdämmerung--like the lights of some harbour seen from the farther shore--like clouds that are ready to burst with evening sunlight. Perhaps, after all, amber was the nearest.... “Peter, ask Miss Rossiter if she will have some more tea....” Oh! What a fool he is! What an absolute ass! On the second of these two meetings she had read “Reuben Hallard.” She loved it! She thought it astounding! The most wonderful first novel she had ever read. How had he been able to make one feel Cornwall so? She had been once to Cornwall, to Mullion and it had been just like that! Those rocks! it was like a poem! And then so exciting! She had not been able to put it down for a single minute. “Mother was furious with me because there I sat until I don't know how early in the morning reading it! Oh! Mr. Westcott, how wonderful to write like that!” Her praise inflamed him like wine. He looked at her with exultation. “Oh! you feel like that!” he said, drawing a great breath, “I did want you to like it so!” He was enraptured--the world was heaven! He did not realise that some young woman at a tea-party the day before had said precisely these same things and he had said: “Of all the affected idiots!”... IV