to blush if only a cock-sparrow were to look at her hard," he said,
"which brings me back to the girl again: and so I flit backwards and
forwards. I must have what comes, I suppose," he said, "and whatever she
may be, thank God she's no worse. However, if he might give a final hint
to Providence," he said, "a child among pleasures, and a woman among
pains was the rough outline of his requirement."'

'Did he say that? What a musing creature he must be.'

'He did, indeed.'

3. FROM THE TWELFTH TO THE FIFTEENTH OF JULY

As is well known, ideas are so elastic in a human brain, that they have
no constant measure which may be called their actual bulk. Any important
idea may be compressed to a molecule by an unwonted crowding of others;
and any small idea will expand to whatever length and breadth of vacuum
the mind may be able to make over to it. Cytherea's world was tolerably
vacant at this time, and the young architectural designer's image became
very pervasive. The next evening this subject was again renewed.

'His name is Springrove,' said Owen, in reply to her. 'He is a thorough
artist, but a man of rather humble origin, it seems, who has made
himself so far. I think he is the son of a farmer, or something of the
kind.'

'Well, he's none the worse for that, I suppose.'

'None the worse. As we come down the hill, we shall be continually
meeting people going up.' But Owen had felt that Springrove was a little
the worse nevertheless.

'Of course he's rather old by this time.'

'O no. He's about six-and-twenty--not more.'

'Ah, I see.... What is he like, Owen?'

'I can't exactly tell you his appearance: 'tis always such a difficult
thing to do.'

'A man you would describe as short? Most men are those we should
describe as short, I fancy.'

'I should call him, I think, of the middle height; but as I only see
him sitting in the office, of course I am not certain about his form and
figure.'

'I wish you were, then.'

'Perhaps you do. But I am not, you see.'

'Of course not, you are always so provoking. Owen, I saw a man in the
street to-day whom I fancied was he--and yet, I don't see how it could
be, either. He had light brown hair, a snub nose, very round face, and
a peculiar habit of reducing his eyes to straight lines when he looked
narrowly at anything.'

'O no. That was not he, Cytherea.'

'Not a bit like him in all probability.'

'Not a bit. He has dark hair--almost a Grecian nose, regular teeth,