or, being
an impassioned, heart-ruled, unworldly young person, it is quite likely
that if Ralph Gowan had stood in Mr. Griffith Donne's not exactly
water-tight shoes, she would have clung to him quite as faithfully, and
believed in his perfections quite as implicitly, and quite as scornfully
would have depreciated the merits of his rival; but chance had arranged
the matter for her years before, and so Mr. Griffith was the hero.

"Ralph Gowan!" she flung out. "What is Ralph Gowan, or any other man on
earth, to me? Did I love _him_ before I knew what love was, and scarcely
understood my own heart? Did I grow into a woman loving _him_ and
clinging to _him_ and dreaming about him? Have I ever had any troubles
in common with _him_? Did we grow up together, and tell each other all
our thoughts and help each other to bear things? Let him travel in the
East, if he likes,"--with high and rather inconsistent disdain,--"and
let him have ten thousand a year, if he will,--a hundred thousand
millions a year wouldn't buy me from you--my own!" In another burst,
"Let him ride in his carriage, if he chooses,"--rather, as if such
a course would imply the most degraded weakness; but, as I have said
before, she was illogical, if affectionate,--"let him ride in his
carriage. I would rather walk barefoot through the world with you
than ride in a hundred carriages, if every one of them was lined with
diamonds and studded with pearls."

There was the true flavor of Vagabondia's indiscretion and want of
forethought in this, I grant you; but such speeches as these were Dolly
Crewe's mode of comforting her lover in his dark moods; at least, she
was sincere,--and sincerity will excuse many touches of extravagance.
And as to Griffith, every touch of loving, foolish rhapsody dropped upon
his heart like dew from heaven, filling him with rapture and drawing him
nearer to her than before.

"But," he objected,--a rather weak objection, offered rather weakly,
because he was so full of renewed confidence and bliss,--"but he is a
handsomer fellow than I am, Dolly, and it must be confessed he has good
taste."

"Handsomer!" echoed Dolly. "What do I care about his beauty? He is n't
_you_,--that is where he fails to come up to the mark. And as to his
good taste, do you suppose for a second that I could ever admire the
most imposing 'get-up' by Poole, as I love this threadbare coat of
yours, that I have laid my cheek against for the last three years?" And
s