Mr. Montgomery was puzzled. He did not quite know what to make out of this girl. There was something in her way of speaking and in her frankness which offered itself to him, and yet again there was something which stopped him from attempting any liberties. She did not classify herself in any of the species with which he was familiar. At last he said--"You object, then, to all roundaboutness in such matters." "Well, yes; but perhaps I might be misunderstood. I should like people to be plain both ways, about their dislikes as well as their likes." "Good gracious me, Miss Tacchi, what a pretty world you would live in. There would be no fun in it. Half the amusement of life consists in trying to find out what we really think of one another underneath all our fine speeches." "I would rather amuse myself in some other way. I have often dreamt of an island in which everybody should say exactly what was in his mind. Of course it would be very shocking, but I do really believe that in the end we should be happier. It would be delightful to me if my cousins were to tell me, 'We hate you--you are dirty, disagreeable, and ugly; and we do not intend to call upon you any more.' For mind, people would then believe in expressions of affection. They do not believe in them now." "Yes; your island would be all very well for attractive young women, but what would it be for poor devils such as I am. I _know_ that nobody can care twopence for me, but the illusion of politeness is pleasant. It is a wonderful thing how we enjoy being cheated, though we know we are cheated. A man will give a cabman sixpence more than his fare for the humbug of a compliment, and I confess that if people were to say to my face what I am certain they say behind my back, I should hang myself. Illusion, delusion--delusion, illusion," he hummed it as if it were the refrain of a ballad; "it is nothing but that from the day we are born till the day we die, and the older we become the more preposterously are we deluded, until at last--but the Lord--to think of preaching," and he laughed--"you must have made me do it;" and he rose and played with his favourite toys, the wax apples, pitching them up to the ceiling alternately and catching them in one hand. "I must be off." Miriam did not appear to take any notice, "Pray," said he, "if you lived in this island of which you dream, would you tell me you hated me? I am beginning to be rather nervous." "We are not living in it just yet." "But in one just as disagreeable, for it is pouring with rain." Miriam gave a sudden start. She unconsciously looked that the conversation would prolong itself in the same interior strain. Reference to the outside world was impossible to her just then, and that Mr. Montgomery was capable of it was a shock like that of cold water. She came to herself, and went to the window. "Must you go out in this storm?"