woman, the most prudish, would have done in
the same case.

"I have no sense," he said, impatiently.
"I have an odd stupid notion, or have dreamt
it, that you are a little like myself: that you
find that no one understands you, no one cares
for you; that you are alone on an iceberg. It is
a mere fancy, but it is in my head. No matter
whether it be true or not." Mrs. Fermor sighed.
"Well, I came to-night, merely because I heard
that you were going — going at once. My sin
was coming to say good-by."

"I — we — never thought of going," said Mrs.
Fermor, wondering. " Who told you?"

' Well; one who is supposed to be a very
great friend of yours and of mine — Miss Manuel.
She was very eager about it, and wished me to
persuade you to go. Why, I wonder?"

"Why?" said Mrs. Fermor, suddenly flashing
out. "Ah! you can't guess; but there is a
reason for all these things."

"It is a good reason, I suppose?" he said.

"Is it?" said she. " Ah, you who know the
world so well have much to learn; and so have
I. O," she said, almost crying, " I don't know
where to turn to. Every hour brings out some
new treachery."

"Exactly," said he, quietly. "We are wonderfully
like, I see. Just what I find. But, dear
Mrs. Fermor, it grieves me to see you in this
way; you who are so young, and fresh, and fair,
and who ought to be very happy. I can't be
acting shams; I don't care to take the trouble.
I tell you plainly, I have seen that there is
trouble on your mind which I may help. Forgive
me, if I say what I should not say, and give
me but a hint, and I stop. But where I have a
deep earnest and sincere interest in one who so
brusquely turns me into the street —"

"I do indeed believe you to be a friend," said
she, piteously. " And I should be ungracious
if I did not understand your good will; but —"

"Now," said Romaine, drawing his chair
closer, " I see most things, and where I don't see,
I have an instinct. There is Fermor, your husband
— May I go on?"

She looked at him irresolutely, and tried to
call up her faithless pride, which was hurrying to
the rear. " I think on this subject —"

"Exactly," he said, pushing his chair away
again. " I knew it. Poor Romaine! he is always
going through the ice."

"O, go on," she said, a little fretfully; " tell
me what you mean."

"Well," he said, gravely, " Fermor, our friend,
your husband — a good deal of allowance is to be
made for him. He was a beau garçon once. His
head was turned. (Don't be angry.) He has
been humoured — perhaps spoiled. This I mean
in his relation to the common world outside, walking
the streets. Well, he treats that world with
some airs, and how is that world curing him?
How do you suppose? By leaving him altogether
to himself. The treatment has already
had a wholesome effect. It will do him good;
it will soften him in time. You see, the world
is the best mistress in the world. You could not,
my dear Mrs. Fermor, go to a better school."

She looked at him wondering, yet comprehending
perfectly.

"Ah, my dear Mrs. Fermor," he went on,
eagerly, "we are all too much humoured — we
men, I mean. You, I fear, are an angel of sweetness"
—she started — " women, I mean. It does
us no good. The more we get the more we want.
We are not a bit obliged for the homage. There
is some vile overbearing dross in us. Keep us
at the grinding-stone, and we love you all the
same. The sweet suffering wife is only a drudge,
and made a drudge."

She looked at him still with dilated eyes, but
his words brought conviction. A new light had
flashed upon her. Long after he had gone, she
sat pondering on them. At last she said aloud,
"How rude and brutal I was to him, and how
gently he bore my pettishness. I begin to think,
he is my only friend in this world. And all he
says is so sensible."

Never was she so confirmed in her resolution
of "dying first" before giving up going to Lady
Laura's.

CHAPTER XXXVII. A BRAVE STRUGGLE.

LADY LAURA'S festival was now fast hurrying
on. Once she had determined on it, she went
to the task with truly Spartan energy. And,
indeed, there was much to encourage her. Though
her worn and jaded limbs tottered as she struggled
up the steep and stony mountains, still she
flourished up on her poor old shoulder a banner
with the device of Excelsior. She seemed to
force on events by her indomitable will. And it
had actually come to pass just a few nights
before at old Lady Tozer's, that Young Spendlesham,
arriving about one A.M., very pink and
dewy about his face, and very rich and thick
about his speech, and full of kindness and good
will to all men and women in his sentiments, had
fallen into the meshes of a Calypso, who had been
looking out for him for hours, and had been led
away to her island — a greenhouse upon the stairs,
where he long sat in a wine-y rapture. Sometimes
Calypso made as though she would seek Calypso's
mamma, but was checked by Ulysses, who, in his
deep rich voice said, "Don't go yet;" or, with deep
and burning reproach, " You w-ant to go — you
d-oo — you know you do — wharserfellarsname?"
conveying indistinctly that he dreaded the influence
of a rival. On which the gentle Calypso
began to pry curiously into the joinings of
her fan, and asked with gentle suffering where
had he been all the night? On which Ulysses
began to protest hotly, "Nonedeed! But you
—you want to go — I knowte — Issashame,
I say! Tell me now — wharserfellarsname — I
mean," he added correcting himself,
"wharserullerfellarsname? No, no," he added, gloomily,
"you won't tell me, I know you won't!"

Later, an hour later, Calypso whispered softly
to her mamma, and the worn lines of mamma's