earing sock-suspenders
for the first time, but, of course, Gladys didn't know that. He seemed
like one of the strong, silent heroes of fiction. I can testify that
he was silent--perhaps because Gladys did all the talking--and he
looked unusually strong. They sat together most of the evening, and
she only left his side to go to the piano to sing one of her 'stock'
French chansons. Even then she directed it entirely at William.

'_Mamman, dites-moi, ce qu'on sent quand on aime
Est-ce plaisir, est-ce tourment?_'

she warbled, rolling her r's and looking so fixedly at William that he
seemed quite uneasy--he might, indeed, have been more uneasy had his
French been equal to following the words of the song. Modern
languages, however, like modern writers, do not appeal to him. They
must be as dead as mutton before they can awaken his interest. If you
want to see him roused to a perfect frenzy of enthusiasm you should see
him arguing with Henry as to the comparative dramatic values of Homeric
hexameters and Ionian iambics.

But to return to Gladys--or rather Gladys and William, for they
remained inseparable for the remainder of the evening. He even
accompanied her home, for I saw him dart forward (in his patent leather
boots, too, which demanded slow movement on his part), when she rose to
go, and hurry out to act as her escort.

A few days later he called in to see us for the sole purpose of
inquiring about her. He pretended he wanted to borrow Ruskin's _Munera
Pulveris_, but as he went away without the volume we saw how feeble was
that pretext.

'With regard to--er--Miss Harringay,' he began, almost as soon as he
arrived, 'I must say I consider her a remarkable young lady.'

'She _is_,' I said grimly.

'Would you believe it,' he went on, addressing himself to Henry, 'she
is actually a Dr. Johnson enthusiast.'

'Nonsense!' ejaculated Henry.

'It's a fact. Isn't it unusual in one so young and--er--tender and
timid that she recalls Keats' dissertation on woman, "she is like a
milk-white lamb that bleats for man's protection."'

'Oh, so she's been bleating, has she?' I said cruelly.

'It makes it all the more astonishing that she should have leanings
toward the study of serious literature.'

'Who told you she had?'

'She told me so herself.'

'Do you mean to tell me you believe it?'

He looked puzzled. 'Why should she say that if it isn't true? She
could have no object in making such a statement