without . . . the old-fashioned island-instrument to drill into us the civilization of our masters, the ancients, we show it by running here and there to some excess.  Ahem.  Yet,” added the Rev. Doctor, abandoning his effort to deliver a weighty truth obscurely for the comprehension of dainty spinster ladies, the superabundance of whom in England was in his opinion largely the cause of our decay as a people, “Yet I have not observed this ultra-sensitiveness in Willoughby.  He has borne to hear more than I, certainly no example of the frailty, could have endured.”

“He concealed it,” said the ladies.  “It is intense.”

“Then is it a disease?”

“It bears no explanation; it is mystic.”

“It is a cultus, then, a form of self-worship.”

“Self!” they ejaculated.  “But is not Self indifferent to others?  Is it Self that craves for sympathy, love, and devotion?”

“He is an admirable host, ladies.”

“He is admirable in all respects.”

“Admirable must he be who can impress discerning women, his life-long housemates, so favourably.  He is, I repeat, a perfect host.”

“He will be a perfect husband.”

“In all probability.”

“It is a certainty.  Let him be loved and obeyed, he will be guided.  That is the secret for her whom he so fatally loves.  That, if we had dared, we would have hinted to her.  She will rule him through her love of him, and through him all about her.  And it will not be a rule he submits to, but a love he accepts.  If she could see it!”

“If she were a metaphysician!” sighed Dr. Middleton.

“—­But a sensitiveness so keen as his might—­”

“—­Fretted by an unsympathizing mate—­”

“—­In the end become, for the best of us is mortal—­”

“—­Callous!”

“—­He would feel perhaps as much—­”

“—­Or more!—­”

“—­He would still be tender—­”

“—­But he might grow outwardly hard!”

Both ladies looked up at Dr. Middleton, as they revealed the dreadful prospect.

“It is the story told of corns!” he said, sad as they.

The three stood drooping:  the ladies with an attempt to digest his remark; the Rev. Doctor in dejection lest his gallantry should no longer continue to wrestle with his good sense.

He was rescued.

The door opened and a footman announced:—­

“Mr. Dale.”

Miss Eleanor and Miss Isabel made a sign to one another of raising their hands.

They advanced to him, and welcomed him.

“Pray be seated, Mr. Dale.  You have not brought us bad news of our Laetitia?”

“So rare is the pleasure of welcoming you here, Mr. Dale, that we are in some alarm, when, as we trust, it should be matter for unmixed congratulation.”

“Has Doctor Corney been doing wonders?”

“I am indebted to him for the drive to your house, ladies,” said Mr. Dale, a spare, close-buttoned gentleman, with an Indian complexion deadened in the sick-chamber.  “It is unusual for me to stir from my precincts.”