sun-warmed hill-side, beneath a great German oak whose arms were quiet
in the blue summer air, there was a lively exchange of impressions,
opinions, speculations, anecdotes. Gordon Wright was surely an excellent
friend. He took an interest in you. He asked no idle questions and made
no vague professions; but he entered into your situation, he examined
it in detail, and what he learned he never forgot. Months afterwards,
he asked you about things which you yourself had forgotten. He was not a
man of whom it would be generally said that he had the gift of
sympathy; but he gave his attention to a friend's circumstances with
a conscientious fixedness which was at least very far removed from
indifference. Bernard had the gift of sympathy--or at least he was
supposed to have it; but even he, familiar as he must therefore have
been with the practice of this charming virtue, was at times so
struck with his friend's fine faculty of taking other people's affairs
seriously that he constantly exclaimed to himself, "The excellent
fellow--the admirable nature!"

Bernard had two or three questions to ask about the three persons who
appeared to have formed for some time his companion's principal society,
but he was indisposed to press them. He felt that he should see for
himself, and at a prospect of entertainment of this kind, his
fancy always kindled. Gordon was, moreover, at first rather shy of
confidences, though after they had lain on the grass ten minutes there
was a good deal said.

"Now what do you think of her face?" Gordon asked, after staring a while
at the sky through the oak-boughs.

"Of course, in future," said Longueville, "whenever you make use of
the personal pronoun feminine, I am to understand that Miss Vivian is