"With passion?"
"Well, hardly. With cool correctness. An icicle on Dian's temple—that would be my guess."
"An icicle? No wonder the young ladies don't quite fancy him."
"I understand he took them all in a lump—so far as he took them at all. Treated them all exactly alike; Hortense was quite scornful when she brought up my lunch-tray. Of course that's no way for a man to do."
"On the contrary. For certain purposes it might be a very good way."
"'On the contrary,' if you like; since frost may perform the effects of fire. Medora herself is beginning to see him as a tall, white candle, burning in some niche or at some shrine. Sir Galahad—or something of that sort."
Randolph grimaced at this.
"Oh, misery! I hope she hasn't mentioned her impression to him! Imagine whether a man would enjoy being told a thing like that. I hope, I'm sure, that no 'Belle Dame sans Merci' will get on his tracks!"
"If he goes in too much for 'palely loitering' he may be snatched."
"Poor fellow! They'd better leave him to his studies and his students. He has his own way to make, I presume, and will need all his energies to get ahead. For, as some one has said, 'There are no tea-houses on the road to Parnassus.' Neither do tea-fights boost a man toward the Porch or Academe."
"He's going in for teas?"
