Constance.—"Why, that's lovely,—that attribution of human feeling to the tree. Don't you think so?"
Bartlett, absently.—"Yes, yes; beautiful. But it's terrible, too; terrible. Supposing the oak really had human feeling; or supposing that a man had been meant in the figure of an oak"— He has drawn near Constance again; but now he retreats. "Ah, I can't work out the idea."
Constance.—"What idea? I can't imagine what you mean."
Bartlett.—"Ah! I can. My trouble is, I can't say what I mean! This was sometime a paradox."
Constance.—"Oh! I should think, a riddle."
Bartlett.—"Some day I hope you'll let me read it to you."
Constance.—"Why not now?"
Bartlett, impetuously.—"If you only meant what you said, it would be—so much better than if I said what I meant!"
Constance.—"You are dealing in mysteries to-day."
Bartlett.—"Oh, the greatest of them! But don't mind. Wait! I'll try to tell you what I mean. I won't make you stand, while I talk. Here!" He wheels up in front of the picture one of the haircloth sofas; Constance mechanically sinks down upon it, and he takes his place at her side; she bends upon him a look of smiling amusement. "I can put my meaning best, I think, in the form of allegory. Do you like allegory, Miss Wyatt?"