"Oh, but that's splendid!" he cried, seizing her hand and shaking it, just as if she were another boy. "I say, you are a swell; and amongst such swells; marquesses and lords and ladies of high degree! But, I say, I am glad. How happy you must be!"
"I am," said Celia. "But go on, tell me about your novel; what kind of a novel is it to be?"
"Do you remember my telling you, that afternoon at the A.B.C. shop, how, if ever I got a chance, I meant to go in for character, psychology? Good word, psychology! Well, I've got my chance, and I'm going for it bald-headed. Since I saw you, I have been studying Lavater; the physiognomy man, you know—wonderful book!—and I've been fitting imaginary histories to everybody, man or woman, I've met."
"I used to do that," said Celia, dreamily; and back came Brown's Buildings.
"Yes? Of course, one may make an awfully bad shot sometimes; but I'm inclined to think that, as a rule, one is pretty accurate. I mean, that you can judge the character of a man from his face—not so often that of a woman, because she's more difficult, she knows how to mask her feelings——"
"Thank you," interjected Celia.
"Oh, you know what I mean! She's been the slave of the man for centuries, and she's been obliged to deceive him."
"Thank you very, very much!"
"Oh, but she's getting past that, now; she's coming into her own, whatever that may prove to be; and presently she'll go about with an open countenance, and it may be easier for me to study her."
"It's to be a detective story, I suppose?" said Celia.