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Dip your hand into it again in fancy; realise how chaste it is, and then again think how bright and good it is. And if you realise these impressions as they come to me, you will have gained some idea of George Muncaster's face the essential spirit of it, I mean, ever so much more important than the mere features.

Not your idea of poetry, perhaps, but, after a new and growing fashion in poetry, truly poetic. George Muncaster's marriage is a type of the new poetry, the poetry of essentials. The old poetry, as exemplified in the old-fashioned marriage, is a poetry of externals, and certainly it has the advantage of picturesqueness. There is perhaps more to be said for it than that.

But our passionate generosity of soul was running in too strong a tide just then to be stemmed by any such interference; it could but be diverted, and Muncaster's bedroom served us as well wherein to squat in one of those close, rapt circles of talk such as, I think, after all, men who love poetry can alone know men, anyhow, with a poetry.

Indeed, if I were ever to get married, I am at a loss to know which way I should choose, George Muncaster's way or the old merry fashion, with the rice and the old shoes and the orange-blossom.