“French in his ideas!” echoed Sir Chetwynd Lyle, who was just preparing to leave the lounge. “Dear me! How is that?” “He is a Frenchman,” said Dr. Dean, suavely. “Therefore that his ideas should be French ought not to be a matter of surprise to us, my dear Sir Chetwynd.” Sir Chetwynd snorted. He had a suspicion that he--the editor and proprietor of the _Daily Dial_--was being laughed at, and he at once clambered on his high horse of British Morality. “Frenchman or no Frenchman,” he observed, “the ideas promulgated in France at the present day are distinctly profane and pernicious. There is a lack of principle--a want of rectitude in--er--the French Press, for example, that is highly deplorable.” “And is the English Press immaculate?” asked Denzil languidly. “We hope so,” replied Sir Chetwynd. “We do our best to make it so.” And with that remark he took his paunch and himself away into retirement, leaving Dr. Dean and young Murray facing each other, a singular pair enough in the contrast of their appearance and dress,--the one small, lean and wiry, in plain-cut, loose-flowing academic gown; the other tall, broad and muscular, clad in the rich attire of mediæval Florence, and looking for all the world like a fine picture of that period stepped out from its frame. There was a silence between them for a moment,--then the Doctor spoke in a low tone: “It won’t do, my dear boy,--I assure you it won’t do! You will break your heart over a dream, and make yourself miserable for nothing. And you will break your sister’s heart as well; perhaps you haven’t thought of that?” Denzil flung himself into the chair Sir Chetwynd had just vacated, and gave vent to a sigh that was almost a groan. “Helen doesn’t know anything--yet,” he said hoarsely. “I know nothing myself; how can I? I haven’t said a word to--to _her_. If I spoke all that was in my mind, I daresay she would laugh at me. You are the only one who has guessed my secret. You saw me last night when I--when I accompanied her home. But I never passed her palace gates,--she wouldn’t let me. She bade me ‘good-night’ outside; a servant admitted her, and she vanished through the portal like a witch or a ghost. Sometimes I fancy she _is_ a ghost. She is so white, so light, so noiseless and so lovely!” He turned his eyes away, ashamed of the emotion that moved him. Dr. Maxwell Dean took off his academic cap and examined its interior as though he considered it remarkable. “Yes,” he said slowly; “I have thought the same thing of her myself--sometimes.”