had a man write a poem about me before, and I should not be human if I were not touched." Then she stopped short, and looked grave. After a moment or two, she continued, "Of course I don't believe a word he, or any other man, says. David said all men were liars, and I know it is true. But it would be ridiculous to take a man like Anatole Doucet seriously. He does not mean—he does not know what he is saying, half the time."
"He knows pretty well the other half," said Miss Baring; "and if the half that is unreal is bad, the half that is real is worse."
Alaric's attitude towards Elizabeth was unchanged. He did not advance in intimacy—apparently he had no desire to do so—in consequence of the incident I have narrated. He named it casually to Hatty, solely, as she believed, in order to express his contempt of Doucet, and his amazement that her friend should tolerate the poet's attentions. She did not defend Elizabeth. On the contrary, she said with feminine artfulness—
"Miss Shaw seems very dense in some respects—has evidently no discernment. She believes all men are alike untrustworthy, and looks on this Frenchman as only a poseur—an extreme example of the national vanity and proneness to flatter."
"She seems to like it," he returned dryly. "I watched her a good deal during the evening."
Hatty could hardly repress a smile. "Yes; she owns it amuses her. She regards it as experience, I suppose."
"You had better tell her that some experiences are perilous," said her brother, as he turned away.
