No one could be a more charmingly devoted lover than Harry. There was no one like him for little attentions and inattentions, charming little thoughts, caressing words, and the little jealous scenes that women value. It was not the mere mechanically experienced love-making that women see through and to which they often prefer a clumsy sincerity. It was natural, spontaneous. He had, in fact, a genius for love-making, but he had not, like Romer, a genius for love. Harry had all the gift of expression--poor Romer had only the gift of feeling. But notwithstanding Harry's magnetism, a woman once disillusioned by him was disillusioned for ever. Women never forgave him. His romances generally ended suddenly, and always irrevocably. * * * * * Harry had no great love of truth in the abstract, but, at least, he never deceived himself. He saw through his own unscrupulousness, and rather despised it just as he despised his own work as a painter. He had grown really fond of Van Buren for the simple, sincere qualities in which Harry knew himself to be deficient; and the American's whole-hearted admiration--almost infatuation--for him gave Harry the pleasure one feels in the frank devotion of a child. It touched him, even while he intended to make use of it, because it was his nature to make use of everything. It is an infallible sign of the second-rate in nature and intellect to make use of everything and every one. The genius is incapable of making use of people. It is for the second-rate clever people to make use of him. One morning Harry had heard unexpectedly that he had sold a picture--a thing that rarely happened--and was looking at the cheque he had received, when Van Buren came into the studio. Harry told the news. "Well, Harry, I do congratulate you, with all my heart! What are you going to do with that?" "Frame it," said Harry. "It's the only one I've had for three years. It's a curiosity." The American laughed. "Harry, I guess what you're really going to do--you're going to give yourself the humble joy of paying some of the more pressing liabilities. I know you!" "My dear fellow, that would be mad extravagance! Oh no. You see, this cheque is--just enough to be no earthly use." Van Buren sat down. "Harry, if you'd only let me.... But I know that vexes you, so I won't talk of it. You're Quixotic, that's what's the matter with you." He smiled, pleased with the word. "Yes, Quixotic! I want to speak to you about your cousin--I mean Miss Daphne, the beauteous broo-nette." "Well, how do you think you're getting on?" asked Harry, who already knew from Valentia that it was hopeless. "Not as well as I should like, Harry. I can't say I feel I'm making any very great progress. She's a dream, but I'm afraid she regards me as a heavy-weight. She's only a child, really, I know. She would prefer a little boy of her own age who would make her laugh. Maybe she thinks I'm too old. What do you say?" "You must give her time."