bright hair and laughing eyes said, 'Miss Nan
Underhill.' Of course I was too well bred, and in too great a hurry to
listen to any more, or I might have found out about her. I had just an
instant interior gleam of what she must be like with that English name.
And I wonder if the fates have directed my steps to her?"

Mr. Andersen was not the tall, stern, gloomy hero of romance; he was
medium in height and figure, with a frank, eager sort of face, dark
hair, and eyes she thought black then, but afterwards came to know that
they were of the deep blue of a midnight sky in winter. He had such a
smiling mouth, and his voice had a curious, lingering cadence that
suggests that one may have heard it in a previous state.

Hanny caught the spirit of the half badinage, and the laughing light in
his face.

"I think I ought to know the ideal before I confess identity," she
replied.

"Can't I change the ideal? Or repent my vague, wild fancy?"

"Oh, was it wild? Then I must insist upon it. Miss Nan Underhill, an
English girl; of course she was tall, this vision of your imagination?"

Hanny was quite sure her face grew redder. And this ideal girl was
beautiful. Oh, dear!

"Yes, tall; a daughter of the gods, or the old Norse Vikings before they
were Anglicised, with fair hair. And you have the fair hair."

"But I am not tall! I am sorry to have you disappointed."

"I am not disappointed. What does a vagrant fancy amount to? I consider
myself fortunate in meeting Miss Underhill. Why, suppose I had gone
rambling about and missed you altogether? Have you known the Jaspers
long?"

"Oh, years and years. Before they went abroad."

"What a beautiful girl Daisy is! I am glad she is here enjoying herself.
Oh, isn't it the regulation thing to speak of the hero of the feast? Of
course when you heard he was coming to lecture you began to read his
novels--if you had not before."

"I had not read them before. There are a great many books I have not
read. But I tried at 'Vanity Fair;' and I am afraid I don't like it."

"I do not believe you will now. I can't imagine real young people liking
them. But when one has grown older and had sorrow and suffering and
experience, there are so many touches that go to one's heart. And
'Vanity Fair' is a novel without a hero. Still I always feel sorry for
poor Major Dobbins. I wonder if Amelia would have liked him better if
his name had been something else? Could you fall in love with such a
name?"