3. FROM THE TWELFTH TO THE FIFTEENTH OF JULY
As is well known, ideas are so elastic in a human brain, that they
have no constant measure which may be called their actual bulk. Any
important idea may be compressed to a molecule by an unwonted
crowding of others; and any small idea will expand to whatever
length and breadth of vacuum the mind may be able to make over to
it. Cytherea's world was tolerably vacant at this time, and the
young architectural designer's image became very pervasive. The
next evening this subject was again renewed.
'His name is Springrove,' said Owen, in reply to her. 'He is a
thorough artist, but a man of rather humble origin, it seems, who
has made himself so far. I think he is the son of a farmer, or
something of the kind.'
'Well, he's none the worse for that, I suppose.'
'None the worse. As we come down the hill, we shall be continually
meeting people going up.' But Owen had felt that Springrove was a
little the worse nevertheless.
'Of course he's rather old by this time.'
'O no. He's about six-and-twenty--not more.'
'Ah, I see. . . . What is he like, Owen?'
'I can't exactly tell you his appearance: 'tis always such a
difficult thing to do.'
'A man you would describe as short? Most men are those we should
describe as short, I fancy.'
'I should call him, I think, of the middle height; but as I only see
him sitting in the office, of course I am not certain about his form
and figure.'
'I wish you were, then.'
'Perhaps you do. But I am not, you see.'
'Of course not, you are always so provoking. Owen, I saw a man in
the street to-day whom I fancied was he--and yet, I don't see how it
could be, either. He had light brown hair, a snub nose, very round
face, and a peculiar habit of reducing his eyes to straight lines
when he looked narrowly at anything.'
'O no. That was not he, Cytherea.'
'Not a bit like him in all probability.'
'Not a bit. He has dark hair--almost a Grecian nose, regular teeth, and an intellectual face, as nearly as I can recall to mind.'
'Ah, there now, Owen, you _have_ described him! But I suppose
he's not generally called pleasing, or--'
'Handsome?'
'I scarcely meant that. But since you have said it, is he
handsome?'
'Rather.'
'His tout ensemble is striking?'
'Yes--O no, no--I forgot: it is not. He is rather untidy in his
waistcoat, and neck-ties, and hair.'
'How vexing! . . . it must be to himself, poor thing.'
'He's a thorough bookworm--despises the pap-and-daisy school of
verse--knows Shakespeare to the very dregs of the foot-notes. Indeed, he's a poet himself in a small way.'
'How delicious!' she said. 'I have never known a poet.'
'And you don't know him,' said Owen dryly.
She reddened. 'Of course I don't. I know that.'
'Have you received any answer to your advertisement?' he inquired.
'Ah--no!' she said, and the forgotten disappointment which had
showed itself in her face at different times during the day, became
visible again.
Another day passed away. On Thursday, without inquiry, she learnt
more of the head draughtsman. He and Graye had become very
friendly, and he had been tempted to show her brother a copy of some
poems of his--some serious and sad--some humorous--which had
appeared in the poets' corner of a magazine from time to time. Owen
showed them now to Cytherea, who instantly began to read them
carefully and to think them very beautiful.
'Yes--Springrove's no fool,' said Owen sententiously.