Lorrimer.
"I have seen him," she answered, with a burning blush, being taken
unawares.
"He's a charming fellow--don't you think so?"
"Yes, I think so," she agreed, with an indescribable sense of relief.
And the next day a young clergyman whom she stopped to speak to in the
street began at once about Lorrimer. "I met him at dinner the other
night," he said. "I suppose you know him? There is much truth in 'birds
of a feather.' He fascinated us all with his talk of art and
literature. He gave us such new ideas--described such varied
experiences, and all with such grace and power."
"Yes," she answered, thoughtfully. "I believe he is brilliant."
"Many people are that," was the reply, given with hearty enthusiasm;
"but Lorrimer is something more. He is good. He makes you feel it, and
know it, and believe in him, without ever saying a word about himself."
"Ah!" she sighed, "there is power in that. What lovely summer weather!
It makes me dream. Don't you love the time of nasturtiums? Their
pungent scent, and their colours? They seem to penetrate and glow
through everything, and make the time their own.
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