There came a quick rap at the door. “Come in,” I cried; and she entered. “I came to say good-bye to you,” she explained. “I'm just going out. What were you laughing at?” “Oh, at an idea that occurred to me.” “A funny one?” “Yes.” “Tell it me.” “Well, it was something in connection with yourself. It might offend you.” “It wouldn't trouble you much if it did, would it?” “No, I don't suppose it would.” “Then why not tell me?” “I was thinking of your lover.” It did offend her; I thought it would. But she looked really interesting when she was cross. Her grey eyes would flash, and her whole body quiver. There was a charming spice of danger always about making her cross. “I suppose you think I shall never have one.” “On the contrary, I think you will have a good many.” I had not thought so before then. I formed the idea for the first time in that moment, while looking straight into her angry face. It was still a childish face. The anger died out of it as it always did within the minute, and she laughed. “It would be fun, wouldn't it. I wonder what I should do with him? It makes you feel very serious being in love, doesn't it?” “Very.” “Have you ever been in love?” I hesitated for a moment. Then the delight of talking about it overcame my fear of being chaffed. Besides, when she felt it, nobody could be more delightfully sympathetic. I determined to adventure it. “Yes,” I answered, “ever since I was a boy. If you are going to be foolish,” I added, for I saw the laugh before it came, “I shan't talk to you about it.” “I'm not--I won't, really,” she pleaded, making her face serious again. “What is she like?” I took from my breast pocket Barbara's photograph, and handed it to her in silence. “Is she really as beautiful as that?” she asked, gazing at it evidently fascinated. “More so,” I assured her. “Her expression is the most beautiful part of her. Those are only her features.” She sighed. “I wish I was beautiful.” “You are at an awkward age,” I told her. “It is impossible to say what you are going to be like.” “Mamma was a lovely woman, everybody says so; and Tom I call awfully handsome. Perhaps I'll be better when I'm filled out a bit more.” A small Venetian mirror hung between the two windows; she glanced up into it. “It's my nose that irritates me,” she said. She rubbed it viciously, as if she would rub it out. “Some people admire snub noses,” I explained to her. “No, really?” “Tennyson speaks of them as 'tip-tilted like the petals of a rose.'” “How nice of him! Do you think he meant my sort?” She rubbed it again, but in a kinder fashion; then looked again at Barbara's photograph. “Who is she?” “She was Miss Hasluck,” I answered; “she is the Countess Huescar now. She was married last summer.” “Oh, yes, I remember; you told us about her. You were children together. But what's the good of your being in love with her if she's married?” “It makes my whole life beautiful.” “Wanting somebody you can't have?”