ons he offered
every age and sex from those he paid Alice. But while they all agreed
that there never was a sweeter fellow, they would have been puzzled to
say in just what this difference consisted, and much as they liked
him, the ladies of her cult were not quite satisfied with him till
they decided that it was marked by an anxiety, a timidity, which was
perfectly fascinating in a man so far from bashfulness as he. That is,
he did nice things for others without asking; but with her there was
always an explicit pause, and an implicit prayer and permission, first.
Upon this condition they consented to the glamour which he had for her,
and which was evident to every one probably but him.

Once agreeing that no one was good enough for Alice Pasmer, whose
qualities they felt that only women could really appreciate, they were
interested to see how near Mavering could come to being good enough; and
as the drama played itself before their eyes, they pleased themselves in
analysing its hero.

"He is not bashful, certainly," said one of a little group who sat
midway of the piazza while Alice and Mavering walked up and down
together. "But don't you think he's modest? There's that difference, you
know."

The lady addressed waited so long before answering that the young couple
came abreast of the group, and then she had to wait till they were out
of hearing. "Yes," she said then, with a tender, sighing thoughtfulness,
"I've felt that in him. And really think he is a very loveable nature.
The only question would be whether he wasn't too loveable."

"Yes," said the first lady, with the same kind of suspiration, "I know
what you mean. And I suppose they ought to be something more alike in
disposition."

"Or sympathies?" suggested the other.

"Yes, or sympathies."

A third lady laughed a little. "Mr. Mavering has so many sympathies that
he ought to be like her in some of them."

"Do you mean that he's too sympathetic--that he isn't sincere?" asked
the first--a single lady of forty-nine, a Miss Cotton, who had a little
knot of conscience between her pretty eyebrows, tied there by the
unremitting effort of half a century to do and say exactly the truth,
and to find it out.

Mrs. Brinkley, whom she addressed, was of that obesity which seems often
to incline people to sarcasm. "No, I don't think he's insincere. I think
he always means what he says and does--Well, do you think a little more
concentration of good-will would hurt