"No, I don't," said Esther, shaking her head mischievously. "I think him too high for it."
"I see you can be ardent in your admiration."
"Yes, it is my champagne; you know I don't like the other kind."
"That would be satisfactory if one were sure of getting your admiration," said Harold, leading her up to the terrace, and amongst the crocuses, from whence they had a fine view of the park and river. They stood still near the east parapet, and saw the dash of light on the water, and the pencilled shadows of the trees on the grassy lawn.
"Would it do as well to admire you, instead of being worthy to be admired?" said Harold, turning his eyes from that landscape to Esther's face.
"It would be a thing to be put up with," said Esther, smiling at him rather roguishly. "But you are not in that state of self-despair."
"Well, I am conscious of not having those severe virtues that you have been praising."
"That is true. You are quite in another genre."
"A woman would not find me a tragic hero."
"O, no! She must dress for genteel comedy—such as your mother once described to me—where the most thrilling event is the drawing of a handsome cheque."
