At this point Barbara’s friend came into the room and they went away together.

Theodora was a very different girl from Barbara. Nominally friends, neither understood the other. Theodora was the best of the family, but that did not suffice to make her interesting. She was short, stout, rather clumsy, with an honest face, entirely without guile. She did not have much sympathy, but was kind. She never hesitated to do what she was sure was right. But she could hardly think for herself what right might be, therefore would have always been in doubt were it not for rules which governed her behaviour. If all the rules she obeyed had been right, and she had seen the right in them, she would have made rapid progress. As it was, her progress was very slow. How Barbara and she managed to entertain each other was almost impossible to imagine.

Barbara left Richard almost bewitched, and considerably perplexed. He had never seen anything like her. No more had most people that met her. She had indeed brought to bear upon him, without knowing it, that humbling and elevating power which ideal womankind has always had, and will eternally have upon genuine manhood. There was an airiness about her, yet a reality, a lightness, yet a force, a readiness, a life such as he could never have imagined. She was a revelation unrevealed—a presence lovely but incredible, suggesting facts and relations which the commonplace in him said could not exist.

The vision was, to use a favourite but pagan phrase, “too good to be true.” Richard’s knowledge of girls was small indeed, but he had now enough to make his first comparison—Alice was like China, Barbara like Venetian glass. He thought there was something in Alice if he could only get at it—he feared there was nothing in Barbara to get at. For one thing, how could she have such parents and take it so lightly!

Certainly, a few things already flowered in Barbara’s garden, but a multitude of precious things were waiting to unfold themselves to anyone who might love her enough to give them a true welcome. Richard pictured the delight of opening the eyes of this child-woman to the many doors of treasure houses that stood in her own wall. It is the impulse of every true heart to give of its best, to infect with its own joy. The thought of giving grandly to such a lady as Barbara might well fill the soul of a workingman with ecstasy.

He began to ponder how to treat her—how to begin to open doors for her—what literary door to open first. Should it be of prose or of verse? He must have more talk with her before he could tell! He must try her with something!

He had time to ponder, for she did not swim again into his ken for three days. He wondered whether he had displeased her, but could think of nothing he had said or done amiss. He must be careful not to offend her with the least roughness in word or manner, lest he should lose the chance of helping her! It was the main part of his creed, as gathered from his father, that a man must do something for his neighbour. Miss Wylder was his neighbour. What better thing could he do than open to her the great joy of books?