We meet Mike in his prime--in his twenty-ninth year--a man of various
capabilities, which an inveterate restlessness of temperament had
left undeveloped--a man of genius, diswrought with passion,
occasionally stricken with ambition.

"Let me have those glasses. There she is! I am sure it is she--there,
leaning against the Embankment. Yes, yes, it is she. Look at her. I
should know her figure among a thousand--those frail shoulders, that
little waist; you could break her like a reed. How sweet she is on
that background of flowing water, boats, wharfs, and chimneys; it all
rises about her like a dream, and all is as faint upon the radiant
air as a dream upon happy sleep. So she is coming to see me. She will
keep her promise. I shall love her. I feel at last that love is near
me. Supposing I were to marry her?"

"Why shouldn't you marry her if you love her? That is to say, if this
is more than one of your ordinary caprices, spiced by the fact that
its object is a nun."

The men looked at each other for a moment doubtful. Then Mike
laughed.

"I hope I don't love her too much, that is all. But perhaps she will
not come. Why is she standing there?"

"I should laugh if she turned on her heel and walked away right under
your very nose."

A cloud passed over Mike's face.