centered upon ideas and not upon people; yet Harriet Sanderson was already marked in the catalogue as the property of Dugald Maclean.
"Do you like vairse?" inquired the young man, with an abruptness which startled her.
The unexpected question was far from the present plane of her thoughts, but it was answered to the best of her ability.
"Yes, I like it very much," she said, tactfully.
"I'm gled." Constable Maclean unbuttoned his great coat.
Somewhere in the mind of Harriet lurked the romantic hope that this remarkable young man was about to produce a hare or a rabbit after the manner of a wonder-*worker at the Egyptian Hall. But in this she was disappointed. He simply took forth from an inner pocket of his tunic several sheets of neatly-folded white foolscap, and handed them to Miss Sanderson without a word. He then folded his arms Napoleonically and watched the force of their impact upon her.
"You wish me to read this?" she asked, after a brief but sharp mingling of confusion and surprise.
The young man nodded.
With fingers that trembled a little, she unrolled the sheets of a fair, well-written copy of "Urban Love, a trilogy."
She read the poem line by line, ninety-six in all, with the face of a sphinx.
"What do ye think o' it, Miss Sanderrson?" There was a slight tremor in the voice of the author. The silence which had followed the reading of "Urban Love,
