ish sentiment, and Pauline made of it a foundation on
which she built towering hopes.

Guy, as soon as he had decided to publish his first volume, instantly
acquired doubts about the prudence of the step, and he rather hurt
Pauline's feelings by wanting Michael Fane to come and give him the
support of his judgment.

"I told you I should never be enough," she said, sadly.

He consoled her with various explanations of his reliance upon a
friend's opinion, but he would not give up his idea of getting him, and
he wrote letter after letter until he was able to announce that for a
week-end in mid-December Michael was actually pledged.

"And I do want you to like him," said Guy, earnestly.

Pauline promised that of course she would like him, but in her heart she
assured herself she never would. It was cerulean Winter weather when the
friend arrived, and Pauline, who had latterly taken up the habit of
often coming into the churchyard to talk for a while with Guy across the
severing stream, abandoned the churchyard throughout that week-end. Guy
was vexed by her withdrawal and vowed that in consequence all the
pleasure of the visit had been spoiled.

"For I've been rushing in and out all the time to see if you were not in
sight, and I'm often absolutely boorish to Fane, who, by the way, loves
your Rectory bedroom so much."

"Has he condescended to let your book appear?" asked Pauline.

"Oh, rather; he says that everything I've included is quite all right.
In fact, he's a much less severe critic than I am myself."

Pauline had made up her mind, if possible, to avoid a meeting with
Michael, but on Monday she relented, and they were introduced to each
other. The colloquy on that turquoise morning, when the earth smelled
fresh and the grass in the orchard was so vernally green, did not help
Pauline to know much about Michael Fane, save that he was not so tall as
Guy, and that somehow he gave the impression of regarding life more
like a portrait by Vandyck than a human being. He was cold, she settled,
and she, as usual shy and blushful, could only have seemed stupid to
him.

That afternoon, when the disturbing friend had gone, Pauline and Guy
went for a walk.

"He admired you tremendously."

"Did he?" she made listless answer.

"He said you were a fairy's child, and he also said you really were a
wild rose."

"What an exaggerated way of talking about somebody whom he has seen for
only a moment."

"Pauline," said Gu