His acquaintance with Miss Sanderson was very slight. They came from neighboring villages in their native Scotland; many times he had gazed from afar on his beautiful compatriot, but only once before could he really be said to have met her. That was months ago, in that very room, when he had been but a few days in London. Since then a very ambitious young man had thought about her a great deal. The force and charm of her personality had cast a spell upon him; this was a demonic woman if ever there was one; he had hardly guessed that such creatures existed. It would be wrong to say that he was in love with her; his passion was centered upon ideas and not upon people; yet Harriet Sanderson was already marked in the catalogue as the property of Dugald Maclean. “Do you like vairse?” inquired the young man, with an abruptness which startled her. The unexpected question was far from the present plane of her thoughts, but it was answered to the best of her ability. “Yes, I like it very much,” she said, tactfully. “I’m gled.” Constable Maclean unbuttoned his great coat. Somewhere in the mind of Harriet lurked the romantic hope that this remarkable young man was about to produce a hare or a rabbit after the manner of a wonder-worker at the Egyptian Hall. But in this she was disappointed. He simply took forth from an inner pocket of his tunic several sheets of neatly-folded white foolscap, and handed them to Miss Sanderson without a word. He then folded his arms Napoleonically and watched the force of their impact upon her. “You wish me to read _this_?” she asked, after a brief but sharp mingling of confusion and surprise. The young man nodded. With fingers that trembled a little, she unrolled the sheets of a fair, well-written copy of “Urban Love, a trilogy.” She read the poem line by line, ninety-six in all, with the face of a sphinx. “What do ye think o’ it, Miss Sanderrson?” There was a slight tremor in the voice of the author. The silence which had followed the reading of “Urban Love, a trilogy” had proved a little too much, even for that will of iron. “It is very nice, if I may say so, very nice indeed,” said Miss Sanderson cautiously. “I’ll be doin’ better than that, I’m thinkin’.” A certain rigidity came into the voice of the author of the poem. The word “nice,” was almost an affront; it had come upon his ear like a false quantity upon that of a classical scholar. “Did you really do it all by yourself?” The inquiry was due less to the performance, which Harriet was quite unable to judge, than to the author’s almost terrible concentration of manner, which clearly implied that it would not do to take such an achievement for granted. “Every worrd, Miss Sanderrson. Except----” “Except what, Mr. Maclean?” “Mr. Lonie, the Presbyterian Minister, helped me a bit wi’ the scansion.” “If I may say so, I think it is remarkably clever.”