“It would be difficult to say how—difficult, at least, to tell _you_ how.” “And why me?” “I wonder she is not better pleased that you are so much her friend.” “But she has not the slightest idea how much I _am_ her friend. That is precisely the point I cannot teach her. May I inquire did she ever speak of me to you?” “Under the name of ‘Isidore’ she has talked about you often; but I must add that it is only within the last ten minutes I have discovered that you and ‘Isidore’ are identical. It is only, Dr. John, within that brief space of time I have learned that Ginevra Fanshawe is the person, under this roof, in whom you have long been interested—that she is the magnet which attracts you to the Rue Fossette, that for her sake you venture into this garden, and seek out caskets dropped by rivals.” “You know all?” “I know so much.” “For more than a year I have been accustomed to meet her in society. Mrs. Cholmondeley, her friend, is an acquaintance of mine; thus I see her every Sunday. But you observed that under the name of ‘Isidore’ she often spoke of me: may I—without inviting you to a breach of confidence—inquire what was the tone, what the feeling of her remarks? I feel somewhat anxious to know, being a little tormented with uncertainty as to how I stand with her.” “Oh, she varies: she shifts and changes like the wind.” “Still, you can gather some general idea—?” “I can,” thought I, “but it would not do to communicate that general idea to you. Besides, if I said she did not love you, I know you would not believe me.” “You are silent,” he pursued. “I suppose you have no good news to impart. No matter. If she feels for me positive coldness and aversion, it is a sign I do not deserve her.” “Do you doubt yourself? Do you consider yourself the inferior of Colonel de Hamal?” “I love Miss Fanshawe far more than de Hamal loves any human being, and would care for and guard her better than he. Respecting de Hamal, I fear she is under an illusion; the man’s character is known to me, all his antecedents, all his scrapes. He is not worthy of your beautiful young friend.” “My ‘beautiful young friend’ ought to know that, and to know or feel who is worthy of her,” said I. “If her beauty or her brains will not serve her so far, she merits the sharp lesson of experience.” “Are you not a little severe?” “I am excessively severe—more severe than I choose to show you. You should hear the strictures with which I favour my ‘beautiful young friend,’ only that you would be unutterably shocked at my want of tender considerateness for her delicate nature.” “She is so lovely, one cannot but be loving towards her. You—every woman older than herself, must feel for such a simple, innocent, girlish fairy a sort of motherly or elder-sisterly fondness. Graceful angel! Does not your heart yearn towards her when she pours into your ear her pure, childlike confidences? How you are privileged!” And he sighed.