He was neither plagiarist nor translator--he was actually an original man.

I do not give his name here, as I consider it the duty of his own country to find him out and acknowledge him, which, as it is so proud of its literary standing, of course it will do in due season.

On this, my first introduction to his poems, I became speedily absorbed in them, and was repeating to myself softly a verse which I remember now: "Hers was sweetest of sweet faces, Hers the tenderest eyes of all; In her hair she had the traces Of a heavenly coronal, Bringing sunshine to sad places Where the sunlight could not fall." Then I was startled by the sound of a clock striking six.

I bethought myself of the people who were coming to dinner, and decided to go to my room and dress.

Replacing the "Pygmalion" book on the table whence I had taken it, I made my way upstairs, thinking as I went of Zara and her strange request, and wondering what journey she was going upon.
I could not come to any satisfactory conclusion on this point, besides, I had a curious disinclination to think about it very earnestly, though the subject kept recurring to my mind.