“You don’t know,” she said, smiling faintly, “but, oh, the exalted dreams young girls indulge in!  And one and all centre around some power-inspired attitude of our own when a great crisis comes.  And most of all we dream of counting heavily; and more than all we clothe ourselves in the celestial authority which dares to forgive. . . .  Is it not pathetically amusing—­the mental process of a young girl?—­and the paramount theme of her dream is power!—­such power as will permit the renunciation of vengeance; such power as will justify the happiness of forgiving? . . .  And every dream of hers is a dream of power; and, often, the happiness of forbearing to wield it.  All dreams lead to it, all mean it; for instance, half-awake, then faintly conscious in slumber, I lie dreaming of power—­always power; the triumph of attainment, of desire for wisdom and knowledge satisfied.  I dream of friendships—­wonderful intimacies exquisitely satisfying; I dream of troubles, and my moral power to sweep them out of existence; I dream of self-sacrifice, and of the spiritual power to endure it; I dream—­I dream—­sometimes—­of more material power—­of splendours and imposing estates, of a paradise all my own.  And when I have been selfishly happy long enough, I dream of a vast material power fitting me to wipe poverty from the world; I plan it out in splendid generalities, sometimes in minute detail. . . .  Of men, we naturally dream; but vaguely, in a curious and confused way. . . .  Once, when I was fourteen, I saw a volunteer regiment passing; and it halted for a while in front of our house; and a brilliant being on a black horse turned lazily in his saddle and glanced up at our window. . . .  Captain Selwyn, it is quite useless for you to imagine what fairy scenes, what wondrous perils, what happy adventures that gilt-corded adjutant and I went through in my dreams.  Marry him?  Indeed I did, scores of times.  Rescue him?  Regularly.  He was wounded, he was attacked by fevers unnumbered, he fled in peril of his life, he vegetated in countless prisons, he was misunderstood, he was a martyr to suspicion, he was falsely accused, falsely condemned.  And then, just before the worst occurred, I appear!—­the inevitable I.”

She dropped back into the chair, laughing.  Her colour was high, her eyes brilliant; she laid her arms along the velvet arms of the chair and looked at him.

“I’ve not had you to talk to for a whole week,” she said; “and you’ll let me; won’t you?  I can’t help it, anyway, because as soon as I see you—­crack! a million thoughts wake up in me and clipper-clapper goes my tongue. . . .  You are very good for me.  You are so thoroughly satisfactory—­except when your eyes narrow in that dreadful far-away gaze—­which I’ve forbidden, you understand. . . . What have you done to your moustache?”

“Clipped it.”