"As a proof, I like you none the worse for the misanthropic pleasure you take in extinguishing the candle in the magic-lantern of fancy—at the moment when the panoramic reflections most delight me. But respecting this apparition—here is no illusion; for I have found out who she is."
He smoked in silence.
"Her name is Mrs. Fraser. She is a widow. She lives in that house yonder, where the light shines through the trees. I have only seen her once, and the circumstances of that meeting may have served to exaggerate my impression of her. But the recollection I carried away with me is that of a woman of a beauty whose mysteriousness defies description."
"If you desire to be disenchanted, Mr. Thorburn, you should get to know her."
"I should be happy to risk my idealism; but how am I to procure an introduction? Her house is a cloister—she a nun, secret and exclusive as the austerest of the flannelled sisterhood."
"Were we in Italy, I should advise you to serenade her. There love is studied as a fine art. It is different here. Yet were I in your straits—for, Mr. Thorburn, are you not in love with this beautiful phantom of yours?"
"I confess it."
"If I were in your straits, I say, I should do something hardy; go to her home, procure admittance at any sacrifice of politeness, and leave the rest to chance."
"That would be practicable to a man with a temperate pulse and trained nerves," I replied; "but I believe I could much more easily jump off the cliff than place myself in the position you suggest."