"Is she a witch—this woman? Good heavens, Harry! Can you, who have associated with the most beautiful and best-bred women in the world, be so infatuated about a dressmaker?"
"It is strange, is it not? But it is true. The thought of her fills my mind day and night. I see her constantly. There is never one word of love, but she knows already, without that word."
"Strange, indeed," repeated Lord Jocelyn. "But it will pass. You will awake, and find yourself again in your right mind, Harry."
He shook his head.
"From this madness," he said, "I shall never recover—for it is my life. Whatever happens, I am her servant."
"It is incomprehensible," replied his guardian; "you were always chivalrous in your ideas of women. They are unusual in young men of the present day; but they used to sit well upon you. Then, however, your ideal was a lady."
"It is a lady still," said the lover, "and yet a dressmaker. How this can be, I do not know; but it is. In the old days men became the servants of ladies. I know now what a good custom it was, and how salutary to the men. Petit Jehan de Saintre, in his early days, had the best of all possible training."
"But if Petit Jehan had lived at Stepney——?"
"Then there is another thing—the life here is useful."
"You now tinker chairs, and get paid a shilling an hour. Formerly, you made dainty, carved workboxes and fans, and pretty things for ladies, and got paid by their thanks. Which is the more useful life?"