Can't ye lave a lad alone,
Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any other girl--
Not even Trojan Helen,
In beauty all excellin'--
Who's been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl?'

Of course Francesca's heart is fixed upon Ronald Macdonald, but that
fact has not altered the glance of her eyes. They no longer say,
'Wouldn't you like to fall in love with me, if you dared?' but they
still have a gleam that means, 'Don't fall in love with me; it is no
use!' And of the two, one is about as dangerous as the other, and
each has something of 'Fan Fitzgerl's divilment.

'Wid her brows of silky black
Arched above for the attack,
Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admiring man;
Masther Cupid, point your arrows,
From this out, agin the sparrows,
For you're bested at Love's archery by young Miss Fan.'

Of course Himself never fell a prey to Francesca's fascinations, but
then he is not susceptible; you could send him off for a ten-mile
drive in the moonlight with Venus herself, and not be in the least
anxious.

Dr. La Touche is grey for his years, tall and spare in frame, and
there are many lines of anxiety or thought in his forehead; but a
wonderful smile occasionally smooths them all out, and gives his
face a rare though transient radiance. He looks to me as if he had
loved too many books and too few people; as if he had tried vainly