” “But your dinner!” she protested. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. It was a charming sight to watch the motions of her tiny fingers as she pursued her task; and though the posture she adopted was not the most favourable that might have been chosen for the display of her sylphlike figure, there was something in her attitude, and the glow of her countenance, lighted up by the mellow radiance of the setting sun falling upon her through the panes of the little dormer-window, that seemed to the youth inexpressibly beautiful. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them.
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