"And will you have something to eat?" Mackinnon asked.

"No, no, no;" she answered. "Tea, yes; but for Heaven's sake let
nothing solid dispel the associations of such a meeting as this!"

"I thought you might have dined early," said Mackinnon. Now
Mackinnon was a man whose own dinner was very dear to him. I have
seen him become hasty and unpleasant, even under the pillars of the
Forum, when he thought that the party were placing his fish in
jeopardy by their desire to linger there too long.

"Early! Yes. No; I know not when it was. One dines and sleeps in
obedience to that dull clay which weighs down so generally the
particle of our spirit. But the clay may sometimes be forgotten.
Here I can always forget it."

"I thought you asked for refreshment," I said. She only looked at
me, whose small attempts at prose composition had, up to that time,
been altogether unsuccessful, and then addressed herself in reply to
Mackinnon.

"It is the air which we breathe that fills our lungs and gives us
life and light. It is that which refreshes us if pure, or sinks us
into stagnation if it be foul. Let me for awhile inhale the breath
of an invigorating literature. Sit down, Mr. Mackinnon; I have a
question that I must put to you." And then she succeeded in
carrying him off into a corner. As far as I could see he went
willingly enough at that time, though he soon became averse to any
long retirement in company with Mrs. Talboys.