Somehow I could not avoid returning once more in the direction of the corridor, to get another glimpse of Dr. John; but I met him on the garden steps, standing where the light from a window fell broad. His well- proportioned figure was not to be mistaken, for I doubt whether there was another in that assemblage his equal. He carried his hat in his hand; his uncovered head, his face and fine brow were most handsome and manly. His features were not delicate, not slight like those of a woman, nor were they cold, frivolous, and feeble; though well cut, they were not so chiselled, so frittered away, as to lose in power and significance what they gained in unmeaning symmetry. Much feeling spoke in them at times, and more sat silent in his eye. Such, at least, were my thoughts of him; to me he seemed all this. An inexpressible sense of wonder occupied me as I looked at this man, and reflected that he could not be slighted.
It was not my intention to approach or address him in the garden, our terms of acquaintance not warranting such a step. I had only meant to view him in the crowd, myself unseen. Coming upon him thus alone, I withdrew. But he was looking out for me, or rather for her who had been with me; therefore he descended the steps, and followed me down the alley.
“You know Miss Fanshawe? I have often wished to ask whether you knew her,” said he.
“Yes, I know her.”
“Intimately?”
“Quite as intimately as I wish.”
“What have you done with her now?”
“Am I her keeper?” I felt inclined to ask; but I simply answered, “I have shaken her well, and would have shaken her better, but she escaped out of my hands and ran away.”
“Would you favour me,” he asked, “by watching over her this one evening, and observing that she does nothing imprudent—does not, for instance, run out into the night-air immediately after dancing?”
“I may, perhaps, look after her a little, since you wish it; but she likes her own way too well to submit readily to control.”
“She is so young, so thoroughly artless,” said he.
“To me she is an enigma,” I responded.
“Is she?” he asked, much interested. “How?”
“It would be difficult to say how—difficult, at least, to tell you how.”
“And why me?”
“I wonder she is not better pleased that you are so much her friend.”
“But she has not the slightest idea how much I am her friend. That is precisely the point I cannot teach her. May I inquire, Did she ever speak of me to you?”
“Under the name of ‘Isidore’ she has talked about you often; but I must add that it is only within the last ten minutes I have discovered that you and ‘Isidore’ are identical. It is only, Dr. John, within that brief space of time I have learned that Ginevra Fanshawe is the person, under this roof, in whom you have long been interested; that she is the magnet which attracts you to the Rue Fossette; that for her sake you venture into this garden, and seek out caskets dropped by rivals.”
“You know all?”