dman's despair), a tough,
cross-grained, sour-hearted variety of fruit, that dries up and shrivels,
and never ripens. There is another variety of fruit that grows rounder
and rosier, tenderer and juicier and sweeter, the longer it hangs on the
tree. Time cannot wither it. The child of the sun and the zephyr, it is
honey-full and fragrant even unto its inmost ripe red core."

He expanded his chest, and significantly thumped it.

"Mark you," he resumed, "I name no names. The soul of delicacy and
discretion, as of modesty and kindness, I name no names. But as for
myself, that I am young I acknowledge. Those whom the gods love are ever
young. Yet I am old enough, at least, to be capable of fresh, impulsive
feelings. I am old enough to have cast the crude, harsh pessimism of
inexperience. I am old enough to have outlived my disillusions. I am
old enough to have learned that the good things of life are good, and to
understand that the rose-buds in the garden are there to be gathered.
And I 'm not such a silly as to forbear to gather them. I think I shall
make Madame Torrebianca the object of my respectful solicitations."

Anthony fixed eyes of derision on him.

"Oh, the fatuity of the man!" he jeered. "If you could see yourself.
You 're sandy-haired--and miles too fat."

"I beg your pardon," said Adrian, with dignity. "My hair is of a very
fashionable shade--tawny, which indicates a passionate heart, with
under-waves of gold, as if the sunshine had got entangled in it. I will
not dwell upon its pretty truant tendency to curl. And as for what you
call _fat_--let me tell you that there are people who admire a rich,
ample figure in a man. I admit, I am not a mere anatomy, I am not a mere
hungry, lean-faced, lantern-jawed, hollow-eyed, sallow-cheeked,
vulture-beaked, over-dressed exiguity, like--well, mark you, I name no
names. I need not allude to my other and higher attributes--my wit, my
sympathy, my charming affectations, my underlying strength of character
(a lion clothed in rose-leaves--what?), my genius for the divinest of the
arts. I think I shall lay myself at the feet of Donna Susanna. The rest
of the sex"--his gesture put them from him--"may coif St. Catherine."

"I have n't the honour of knowing the lady in question," said Anthony,
with detachment. "But if she is anything like the paragon you have led
me to expect, let me, as your sincere well-wisher, let me warn you not to
cherish hopes that