measured us, weighed us, analysed us all as strangers.

Yes, even Dorothy. I have seen her go to meet him with a
flower in her hand that she had plucked for him, and turn away
with her lips trembling, too proud to say a word, dropping the
flower on the grass. John Graham saw it, too. He waited till
she was gone; then he picked up the flower and kept it.

There was nothing to take offence at, nothing on which one
could lay a finger; only these singular alternations of mood
which made Keene now the most delightful of friends, now an
intimate stranger in the circle. The change was inexplicable.
But certainly it seemed to have some connection, as cause or
consequence, with his long, lonely walks.

Once, when he was absent, we spoke of his remarkable
fluctuations of spirit.

The master labelled him. "He is an idealist, a dreamer.
They are always uncertain."

I blamed him. "He gives way too much to his moods. He
lacks self-control. He is in danger of spoiling a fine
nature."

I looked at Dorothy. She defended him. "Why should he be
always the same? He is too great for that. His thoughts make
him restless, and sometimes he is tired. Surely you wouldn't
have him act what he don't feel. Why do you want him to do
that?"