anxious for himself: he feared that Romance might die.

Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will
ever pull it out of us. But there is a spurious sentiment
which cannot resist the unexpected and the incongruous and
the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and the sooner it
goes from us the better. It was going from Philip now, and
therefore he gave the cry of pain.

"I cannot think what is in the air," he began. "If
Lilia was determined to disgrace us, she might have found a
less repulsive way. A boy of medium height with a pretty
face, the son of a dentist at Monteriano. Have I put it
correctly? May I surmise that he has not got one penny?
May I also surmise that his social position is nil?
Furthermore--"

"Stop! I'll tell you no more."

"Really, Miss Abbott, it is a little late for
reticence. You have equipped me admirably!"

"I'll tell you not another word!" she cried, with a
spasm of terror. Then she got out her handkerchief, and
seemed as if she would shed tears. After a silence, which
he intended to symbolize to her the dropping of a curtain on
the scene, he began to talk of other subjects.

They were among olives again, and the wood with its
beauty and wildness had passed away. But as they climbed