the immortal names, the curious errand, the idyllic faith, all made a story as strange to me, and as beguiling, as some tale in the Arabian Nights. Thus it was that my informant had encumbered herself with the ponderous tome; but she hastened to assure me that this was the first time she had brought it out. For her visit to 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 faces; and I felt that the crisis demanded 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—I know them by heart. They've completely taken hold of me. There's no author about whom I feel as I do about Neil Paraday."
"Permit me to remark then," I presently rejoined, "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."
"An appeal?" Her face lighted as if with the chance of some great sacrifice.
If she was ready for one it was only waiting for her, and in a
moment
