'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.