"Beau-tiful!--beau-tiful!" sighed Adderley--"But so remote!--so very remote! Alas!--who reads Shelley now!" "I do"--said Cicely--"Maryllia does. You do. And many more. Shelley didn't write for free-libraries and public-houses. He wrote for the love of Art,--and he was drowned. You do the same, and perhaps you'll be hung! It doesn't much matter how you end, so long as you begin to be something no one else can be." "You have certainly begun in that direction!" said Julian. Cicely shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know! I am myself. Most people try to be what they're not. Such a waste of time and effort! That's why I've taken a fancy to the parson I met this morning, Mr. Walden. He is himself and no other. He is as much himself as old Josey Letherbarrow is. Josey is an individuality. So is Mr. Walden. So is Maryllia. So am I. And"-- here she pointed a witch-like finger at Adderley--"so would you bes if you didn't 'pose' as much as you do!" "Cicely!" murmured Maryllia, warningly, though she smiled. A slight flush swept over Adderley's face. But he took the remark without offence, thereby showing himself to be of better mettle than the little affectations of his outward appearance indicated. "You think so?" he said, placidly--"That is very dear of you!--very young! You may be right--you may be wrong,--but from one so unsophisticated as yourself it is a proposition worth considering-- to pose, or not to pose! It is so new--so fresh!" XVI Walden kept his promise and duly arrived to tea at the Manor that afternoon. He found his hostess in the library with Cicely and Julian. She was showing to the latter one or two rare 'first editions,' and was talking animatedly, but she broke off her conversation the moment he was announced, and advanced to meet him with a bright smile. "At last, Mr. Walden!" she said--"I am glad Cicely has succeeded where I failed, in persuading you to accept the welcome that has awaited you here for some time!" The words were gracefully spoken, with just the faintest trace of kindly reproach in their intonation. Simple as they were, they managed to deprive John of all power to frame a suitable reply. He bowed over the little white hand extended to him, and murmured something which was inaudible even to himself, while he despised what he considered his own foolishness, clumsiness and general ineptitude from the bottom of his heart. Maryllia saw his embarrassment, and hastened to relieve him of it. "We have been talking books,"--she said, lightly--"Mr. Adderley has almost knelt in adoration before my Shakespeare 'first folio.' It is very precious, being uncalendared in the published lists of ordinary commentators. I suppose you have seen it?"