"Lucia, you _can't_. It's impossible. You must _not_ go on being so kind to people. Remember, dear, if he is a heaven-born genius, he's not--he really _is_ not a gentleman." "I know. I've thought of that. But if he isn't a gentleman, he isn't the other thing. He's something by himself. "I admit he's a genius, but--he drops his aitches." "He doesn't drop half as many as he did. He only does it when he's flustered. And I won't let him be flustered. I shall be very kind to him." "Oh," groaned Kitty, "there's no possible doubt about that." "On the whole I think I'm rather glad he isn't a gentleman. He would be much more likely to get in my way if he were. I don't believe this little man would get in my way. He's got eyes at the back of his head, and nerves all over him; he'd see in a minute when I didn't want him. He'd see it before I did, and be off." "You don't know. You might have to be very unpleasant to him before you said good-bye." "No, I should never have to be unpleasant to him; because he would know that would be very unpleasant for me." "All this might mean that he was a gentleman; but I'm afraid it only means that he's a genius." "Genius of that sort," said Lucia, "comes to very much the same thing." And Kitty reluctantly admitted that it did. She sat silent for some minutes gazing into the fire. "Lucia, does it never occur to you that in your passion for giving pleasure you may be giving a great deal of pain?" "It doesn't occur to me that I'm giving either in this case; and it will not occur to him. He knows I'm only giving him his chance. I owe it him. Kitty--when you only think what I've done. I've taken this wonderful, beautiful, delicate thing and set it down to the most abominable drudgery for three weeks. No wonder he was depressed. And I took his Easter from him--Kitty--think--his one happy breathing-time in the whole hateful year." "Whitsuntide and Christmas yet remain." "They're not at all the same thing." "That's you, Lucy, all over; you bagged his Bank Holiday, and you think you've got to give him a year in Italy to make up." "Not altogether to make up." "Well, I don't know what to say. There's no doubt you can do a great many things other women can't; still, it certainly seems a risky thing to do." "How risky?" "I don't want to be coarse, but--I'm not humbugging this time--supposing, merely supposing--he falls in love with you, what then?" "But he won't." "How do you know?" "Because he's in love already, in love with perfection." "But as he'll be sure to identify perfection with you--" "He will see very little of me." "Then he's all the more likely to." "Kitty, _am_ I the sort of woman who allows that sort of thing to happen--with that sort of man?" "My dear, you're the sort of woman who treats men as if they were disembodied spirits, and that's the most dangerous sort I know. If I'm not mistaken Mr. Savage Keith Rickman's spirit is very much embodied."