"
"He probably was. How did it go?"
"Very well indeed."
"What kind of voice?"
"Oh, baritone, I suppose you'd call it."
"And he sang sentimental rubbish?"
"Not at all. Really good things."
"With passion?"
"Well, hardly. With cool correctness. An icicle on Diana'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.
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