or very base.

She passed in review all the men she had ever known, beginning with her
kind-hearted, genial father, the clever humorist artist, who could
define a man's character in an epigram so skillfully. He was no hero of
romance; he liked his cigar, his "glass," and his jest. She thought of
all his rugged, picturesque artist-comrades, blunt of speech, honest of
heart, open-handed, generous, self-sacrificing men, who never envied a
comrade's prosperity, nor did even their greatest enemy an evil turn;
yet they were not heroes of romance. She thought of Sir Oswald--the
stately gentleman of the old school, who had held his name and race so
dear, yet had made so fatal an error in his marriage and will. She
thought of the captain, handsome and polished in manner, and her face
grew pale as she remembered him. She thought of Lord Aynsley, for whom
she had a friendly liking, not unmixed with wonder that he could so
deeply love the fair, soft-voiced, inane Lady Darrell.

Then she began to reflect how strange it was that she had lived until
now, yet had never seen a man whom she could love. Her beautiful lips
curled in scorn as she thought of it.

"If ever I love any one at all," she said to herself, "it must be some
one whom I feel to be my master. I could not love a man who was weak in
body, soul, heart, or mind. I must feel that he is my master; that my
soul yields to his; that I can look up to him as the real guiding star
of my life, as the guide of my actions. If ever I meet such a man, and
vow to love him, what will my love do for me? I do not think I could
fall in love with a book-hero either; they are too coldly perfect. I
should like a hero with some human faults, with a touch of pride capable
of being roused into passion."

Suddenly, as the thought shaped itself in her mind, she saw a tall
figure crossing the sands--the figure of a man, walking quickly.

He stopped at some little distance from the cliff, and then threw
himself on the sand. His eyes were fixed on the restless, beautiful sea;
and she, attracted by his striking masculine beauty, the statuesque
attitude, the grand, free grace of the strong limbs, the royal carriage
of the kingly head, watched him. In the Louvre she had seen some
marvelous statues, and he reminded her of them. There was one of
Antinous, with a grand, noble face, a royal head covered with clusters
of hair, and the stranger reminded her of it.

She looked at him in wonder. She had se