Her good father surveyed her with complacency, remarking soon: "She looks
too hot--that's her walk. But she'll be all right presently. Then I'll
make her come over and speak to you."

"I should be sorry to give you that trouble. If you were to take me over
_there_--!" the young man murmured.

"My dear sir, do you suppose I put myself out that way? I don't mean for
you, but for Marian," the General added.

"_I_ would put myself out for her soon enough," Overt replied; after
which he went on: "Will you be so good as to tell me which of those
gentlemen is Henry St. George?"

"The fellow talking to my girl. By Jove, he _is_ making up to
her--they're going off for another walk."

"Ah is that he--really?" Our friend felt a certain surprise, for the
personage before him seemed to trouble a vision which had been vague only
while not confronted with the reality. As soon as the reality dawned the
mental image, retiring with a sigh, became substantial enough to suffer a
slight wrong. Overt, who had spent a considerable part of his short life
in foreign lands, made now, but not for the first time, the reflexion
that whereas in those countries he had almost always recognised the
artist and the man of letters by his personal "type," the mould of his
face, the character of his head, the expression of his figure and even
the indications of his dress, so in England this identification was as
little as possible a matter of course, thanks to the greater conformity,
the habit of sinking the profession instead of advertising it, the