since hopeless loyalty and unrequited passion were the eternal
stock-in-trade of romance. He wished he were twenty-five himself to
have the chance of indulging in such sentimentality for such a lady.
But Heritage was not like him and would never be content with a
romantic folly....He had been in love with her for two years--a
long time. He spoke about wanting to die for her, which was a flight
beyond Dickson himself. "I doubt it will be what they call a
'grand passion,'" he reflected with reverence. But it was hopeless;
he saw quite clearly that it was hopeless.

Why, he could not have explained, for Dickson's instincts were subtler
than his intelligence. He recognized that the two belonged to different
circles of being, which nowhere intersected. That mysterious lady,
whose eyes had looked through life to the other side, was no mate
for the Poet. His faithful soul was agitated, for he had developed
for Heritage a sincere affection. It would break his heart, poor man.
There was he holding the fort alone and cheering himself with delightful
fancies about one remoter than the moon. Dickson wanted happy endings,
and here there was no hope of such. He hated to admit that life could
be crooked, but the optimist in him was now fairly dashed.

Sir Archie might be the fortunate man, for of course he would
soon be in love with her, if he were not so already. Dickson like
all his class had a profound regard for the country gentry.
The business Scot does not usually revere wealth, though he may
pursue it earnestly, nor does he specially admire rank in
the common sense. But for ancient race he has respect in his bones,
though it may happen that in public he denies it, and the laird has
for him a secular association with good family....Sir Archie might do.
He was young, good-looking, obviously gallant...But no! He was not