considered good enough for Charlie. Yes, yes, my dear,'--as I uttered a
dissenting protest to this,--'he was a fine fellow, and his was a most
lovable character; but it was his last illness that ripened him.'

'He was always perfect in my eyes,' I returned, in a choked voice.

'That was because you loved him; and no doubt Lesbia possessed the same
ideal goodness for him. Love throws its own glamour,' he went on, and
his voice was unusually grave; 'it does not believe in commonplace
mediocrity; it lifts up its idol to some fanciful pedestal, where the
poor thing feels very uncomfortable and out of its element, and then
persists in falling down and worshipping it. We humans are very droll,
Ursula: we will create our own divinities.'

'Lesbia would have disappointed him,' I persisted obstinately; but I
might as well have talked to the wind. Uncle Max could not find it in
his heart to be hard to a pretty girl.

'That is open to doubt, my dear. Lesbia is amiable and charming, and I
daresay she would have made a nice little wife. Poor Charlie hated clever
women, and in that respect she would have suited him.'

After this I knew it was no good in trying to change his opinion. Uncle
Max held his own views with remarkable tenacity; he had old-fashioned
notions with respect to women, rather singular in so young a man,--for he
was only thirty; he preferred to believe in their goodness, in spite of
any amount of demonstration to the contrary; it vexed him to be reminded
of the shortcomings of his friends; by nature he was an optimist, and had
a large amount of faith in people's good intentions. 'He meant well, poor
fellow, in spite of his failures,' was a speech I have heard more than