“Because I just love him!” Before I could recover from the agitating effect of this crystal ring my companion had continued: “Hasn’t there ever been any face that you’ve wanted to look into?” How could I tell her so soon how much I appreciated the opportunity of looking into hers? I could only assent in general to the proposition that there were certainly for every one such yearnings, and even such faces; and I felt the crisis demand all my lucidity, all my wisdom. “Oh yes, I’m a student of physiognomy. Do you mean,” I pursued, “that you’ve a passion for Mr. Paraday’s books?” “They’ve been everything to me and a little more beside—I know them by heart. They’ve completely taken hold of me. There’s no author about whom I’m in such a state as I’m in about Neil Paraday.” “Permit me to remark then,” I presently returned, “that you’re one of the right sort.” “One of the enthusiasts? Of course I am!” “Oh there are enthusiasts who are quite of the wrong. I mean you’re one of those to whom an appeal can be made.” “An appeal?” Her face lighted as if with the chance of some great sacrifice. If she was ready for one it was only waiting for her, and in a moment I mentioned it. “Give up this crude purpose of seeing him! Go away without it. That will be far better.” She looked mystified, then turned visibly pale. “Why, hasn’t he any personal charm?” The girl was terrible and laughable in her bright directness. “Ah that dreadful word ‘personally’!” I wailed; “we’re dying of it, for you women bring it out with murderous effect. When you meet with a genius as fine as this idol of ours let him off the dreary duty of being a personality as well. Know him only by what’s best in him and spare him for the same sweet sake.” My young lady continued to look at me in confusion and mistrust, and the result of her reflexion on what I had just said was to make her suddenly break out: “Look here, sir—what’s the matter with him?” “The matter with him is that if he doesn’t look out people will eat a great hole in his life.” She turned it over. “He hasn’t any disfigurement?” “Nothing to speak of!” “Do you mean that social engagements interfere with his occupations?” “That but feebly expresses it.” “So that he can’t give himself up to his beautiful imagination?” “He’s beset, badgered, bothered—he’s pulled to pieces on the pretext of being applauded. People expect him to give them his time, his golden time, who wouldn’t themselves give five shillings for one of his books.” “Five? I’d give five thousand!” “Give your sympathy—give your forbearance. Two-thirds of those who approach him only do it to advertise themselves.” “Why it’s too bad!” the girl exclaimed with the face of an angel. “It’s the first time I was ever called crude!” she laughed. I followed up my advantage. “There’s a lady with him now who’s a terrible complication, and who yet hasn’t read, I’m sure, ten pages he ever wrote.”