o me.'

'Always Aminta to you,' was the reply, tenderly given.

'But as for comprehending him, I'm as far off that as Lady de Culme, who
hasn't the liking for him I have.'

'The earl?' said Aminta, showing by her look that she was in the same
position.

Mrs. Lawrence shrugged: 'I believe men and women marry in order that they
should never be able to understand one another. The riddle's best read at
a moderate distance. It 's what they call the golden mean; too close, too
far, we're strangers. I begin to understand that husband of mine, now
we're on bowing terms. Now, I must meet the earl to-morrow. You will
arrange? His hand wants forcing. Upon my word, I don't believe it 's
more.'

Mrs. Lawrence contrasted him in her mind with the husband she knew, and
was invigorated by the thought that a placable impenetrable giant may
often be more pliable in a woman's hands than an irascible dwarf--until,
perchance, the latter has been soundly cuffed, and then he is docile to
trot like a squire, as near your heels as he can get. She rejoiced to be
working for the woman she had fallen in love with.

Aminta promised herself to show the friend a livelier affection at their
next meeting.

A seventh letter, signed 'Adolphus,' came by post, was read and locked up
in her jewel-box. They were all nigh destruction for a wavering minute or
so. They were placed where they lay because the first of them had been
laid there, the box being a strong one, under a patent key, and discovery
would mean the terrible. They had not been destroyed because they had, or
seemed to her to have, the language of passion. She could read them
unmoved, and appease a wicked craving she owned to having, and reproached
herself with having, for that language.

Was she not colour in the sight of men? Here was one, a mouthpiece of
numbers, who vowed that homage was her due, and devotion, the pouring
forth of the soul to her. What was the reproach if she read the stuff
unmoved?

But peruse and reperuse it, and ask impressions to tell our deepest
instinct of truthfulness whether language of this character can have been
written to two women by one hand! Men are cunning. Can they catch a tone?
Not that tone!

She, too, Mrs. Amy May, was colour in the sight of men. Yet it seemed
that he could not have written so to the Queen of Blondes. And she, by
repute, was as dangerous to slight as he to attract. Her indifference
exonerated him. Besides, a Queen of Blondes w