"Humphrey," he groaned, "I know all Cornelius's virtues."
"But not the fragile nature of his beautifully subtle brain. That, Joseph, I alone know. I tremble to think what would become of that—that deliciæ musurum, were he to be deprived of the little luxuries which are to him necessities. A poet's brain, Joseph, is not a thing to be lightly dealt with."
Joseph was touched at this appeal.
"You are really, Humphrey, the most tender-hearted pair of creatures I ever saw. Would that all the world were like you! Take my assurance, if that will comfort you, that I have no thought whatever of marrying Phillis Fleming."
"Joseph,"—Humphrey grasped his hand,—"this is, indeed, a sacrifice."
"Not at all," returned Joseph sharply. "Sacrifice? Nonsense. And please remember, Humphrey, that I am acting as the young lady's guardian; that she is an heiress; that she is intrusted to me; and that it would be an unworthy breach of trust if I were even to think of such a thing. Besides which, I have a letter from Mr. Lawrence Colquhoun, who is coming home immediately. It is not at all likely that the young lady will remain longer under my charge. Good-night, Humphrey."
"I had a thing to say to Joseph," said Humphrey, going up to the Workshop, "and I said it."
"I too had a thing to say," said the Poet, "and I said it."
"Cornelius, you are the most unselfish creature in the world."
"Humphrey, you are—I have always maintained it—too thoughtful, much too thoughtful, for others. Joseph will not marry."