Mr. Paraday it had simply been a pretext. She didn't really care a
straw that he should write his name; what she did want was to look
straight into his face.

I demurred a little. "And why do you require to do that?"

"Because I just love him!" Before I could recover from the
agitating effect of this crystal ring my companion had continued:
"Hasn't there ever been any face that you've wanted to look into?"

How could I tell her so soon how much I appreciated the opportunity
of looking into hers? I could only assent in general to the
proposition that there were certainly for every one such yearnings,
and even such faces; and I felt the crisis demand all my lucidity,
all my wisdom. "Oh yes, I'm a student of physiognomy. Do you
mean," I pursued, "that you've a passion for Mr. Paraday's books?"

"They've been everything to me and a little more beside--I know
them by heart. They've completely taken hold of me. There's no
author about whom I'm in such a state as I'm in about Neil
Paraday."

"Permit me to remark then," I presently returned, "that you're one
of the right sort."

"One of the enthusiasts? Of course I am!"

"Oh there are enthusiasts who are quite of the wrong. I mean
you're one of those to whom an appeal can be made."