"Ah, the beginning isn't very good—it's the whole thing!" said Overt, who had listened to this recital with extreme interest. "And you laid down the book and came after me?" he asked.
"That's the way it moved me. I said to myself, 'I see it's off his own bat, and he's there, by the way, and the day's over and I haven't said twenty words to him.' It occurred to me that you would probably be in the smoking-room and that it wouldn't be too late to repair my omission. I wanted to do something civil to you, so I put on my coat and came down. I shall read your book again when I go up."
Paul Overt turned round in his place—he was exceedingly touched by the picture of such a demonstration in his favour. "You're really the kindest of men. Cela's est passé comme ça? and I have been sitting here with you all this time and never apprehended it and never thanked you!"
"Thank Miss Fancourt—it was she who wound me up. She has made me feel as if I had read your novel."
"She's an angel from heaven!" Paul Overt exclaimed.
"She is indeed. I have never seen anyone like her. Her interest in literature is touching—something quite peculiar to herself; she takes it all so seriously. She feels the arts and she wants to feel them more. To those who practise them it's almost humiliating—her curiosity, her sympathy, her good faith. How can anything be as fine as she supposes it?"
"She's a rare organisation," Paul Overt sighed.
"The richest I have ever seen—an artistic intelligence really of the first order. And lodged in such a form!" St. George exclaimed.
"One would like to paint such a girl as that," Overt continued.
