"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into
execution and pronouncing the i long.

"Who?"

"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."

"Swinburne," she corrected.

"Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long
since he died?"

"Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously.
"Where did you make his acquaintance?"

"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his
poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How
do you like his poetry?"

And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had
suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of
the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get
away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her
talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her,
marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head
of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did,
though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by
critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, but
that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was
intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as