“You mean Mr. St. George—isn’t he delightful?” Paul Overt met her eyes, which had a cool morning-light that would have half-broken his heart if he hadn’t been so young. “Alas I don’t know him. I only admire him at a distance.” “Oh you must know him—he wants so to talk to you,” returned Miss Fancourt, who evidently had the habit of saying the things that, by her quick calculation, would give people pleasure. Paul saw how she would always calculate on everything’s being simple between others. “I shouldn’t have supposed he knew anything about me,” he professed. “He does then—everything. And if he didn’t I should be able to tell him.” “To tell him everything?” our friend smiled. “You talk just like the people in your book!” she answered. “Then they must all talk alike.” She thought a moment, not a bit disconcerted. “Well, it must be so difficult. Mr. St. George tells me it _is_—terribly. I’ve tried too—and I find it so. I’ve tried to write a novel.” “Mr. St. George oughtn’t to discourage you,” Paul went so far as to say. “You do much more—when you wear that expression.” “Well, after all, why try to be an artist?” the young man pursued. “It’s so poor—so poor!” “I don’t know what you mean,” said Miss Fancourt, who looked grave. “I mean as compared with being a person of action—as living your works.” “But what’s art but an intense life—if it be real?” she asked. “I think it’s the only one—everything else is so clumsy!” Her companion laughed, and she brought out with her charming serenity what next struck her. “It’s so interesting to meet so many celebrated people.” “So I should think—but surely it isn’t new to you.” “Why I’ve never seen any one—any one: living always in Asia.” The way she talked of Asia somehow enchanted him. “But doesn’t that continent swarm with great figures? Haven’t you administered provinces in India and had captive rajahs and tributary princes chained to your car?” It was as if she didn’t care even _should_ he amuse himself at her cost. “I was with my father, after I left school to go out there. It was delightful being with him—we’re alone together in the world, he and I—but there was none of the society I like best. One never heard of a picture—never of a book, except bad ones.” “Never of a picture? Why, wasn’t all life a picture?” She looked over the delightful place where they sat. “Nothing to compare to this. I adore England!” she cried. It fairly stirred in him the sacred chord. “Ah of course I don’t deny that we must do something with her, poor old dear, yet.” “She hasn’t been touched, really,” said the girl. “Did Mr. St. George say that?” There was a small and, as he felt, harmless spark of irony in his question; which, however, she answered very simply, not noticing the insinuation. “Yes, he says England hasn’t been touched—not considering all there is,” she went on eagerly. “He’s so interesting about our country. To listen to him makes one want so to do something.”