man has a pretty perverted ambition to be a cynical artistic
person of the very calmest description. He is hoping for the
awakening of Passion in her, among other things. He knows Passion
ought to awaken, from the text-books he has studied. He knows she
admires his genius, but he is unaware that she does not admire
his head. He is quite a distinguished art critic in London, and
he met her at that celebrated lady novelist's, her stepmother,
and here you have them well embarked upon the Adventure. Both are
in the first stage of repentance, which consists, as you have
probably found for yourself, in setting your teeth hard and
saying' "I WILL go on."

Things, you see, have jarred a little, and they ride on their way
together with a certain aloofness of manner that promises ill for
the orthodox development of the Adventure. He perceives he was
too precipitate. But he feels his honour is involved, and
meditates the development of a new attack. And the girl? She is
unawakened. Her motives are bookish, written by a haphazard
syndicate of authors, novelists, and biographers, on her white
inexperience. An artificial oversoul she is, that may presently
break down and reveal a human being beneath it. She is still in
that schoolgirl phase when a talkative old man is more
interesting than a tongue-tied young one, and when to be an
eminent mathematician, say, or to edit a daily paper, seems as
fine an ambition as any girl need aspire to. Bechaniel was to
have helped her to attain that in the most expeditious manner,
and here he is beside her, talking enigmatical phrases about
passion, looking at her with the oddest expression, and once, and
that was his gravest offence, offering to kiss her. At any rate
he has apologised. She still scarcely realises, you see, the