She did not understand the drift of all he said, nor, indeed, did he himself, nor was he aware that his speech was of a wandering nature. He spoke enthusiastically, and sometimes he ran his fingers through his hair; and although he did this rather perplexedly, there was no indication in his manner of any want of confidence in himself or his opinions. When Nansie said she had followed her heart, he kissed her and said: "And I followed mine; it led me here to your side, my dearest, and I am happy. This is the loveliest morning! The rain has sweetened everything--for us! You are teaching me things, Nansie. I had no idea the early morning was so beautiful. The flowers, the dew--it is wonderful. If I were a poet I should say the earth was covered with jewels." "You are a poet, Kingsley." "No, no; I see things through your eyes. It is you who are the poet. But I have written verses, too. The fellows say poetry doesn't pay, and you must not encourage me. We must be sensibly worldly. What some of the fellows used to say was that I was prone to be discursive, but they were not judges. Between you and me, they were a little jealous because I could talk. Well, the gift of oratory is not a bad one--I don't say I have it, but I am seldom at a loss for words. It may not be a gift--it may be an art which a man may cultivate. That brings me back to my father. He was always fond of hearing me talk. He has often said, 'Talk away, Kingsley; you shall be in the House one day.' You know what I mean by the House, Nansie?--Parliament." "I like to hear you speak of your father, Kingsley, and that he loves you." "He does, sincerely. He says I am to do great things, and that all his hopes are centred in me. Why do you sigh, Nansie?" "Did I sigh, Kingsley?" she asked, with feminine duplicity. "It must be because I am overjoyed that we are together."