and to awake one day to fetes and fame
would be indeed to live!

Unfortunately Honora's novel no longer exists, or the world might have
discovered a second Evelina. A regard for truth compels the statement
that it was never finished. But what rapture while the fever lasted!
Merely to take up the pen was to pass magically through marble portals
into the great world itself.

The Sir Charles Grandison of this novel was, needless to say, not Peter
Erwin. He was none other than Mr. Randolph Leffingwell, under a very
thin disguise.

CHAPTER V. IN WHICH PROVIDENCE BEEPS FAITH

Two more years have gone by, limping in the summer and flying in the
winter, two more years of conquests. For our heroine appears to be
one of the daughters of Helen, born to make trouble for warriors and
others--and even for innocent bystanders like Peter Erwin. Peter was
debarred from entering those brilliant lists in which apparel played
so great a part. George Hanbury, Guy Rossiter, Algernon Cartwright,
Eliphalet Hopper Dwyer--familiarly known as "Hoppy"--and other young
gentlemen whose names are now but memories, each had his brief day of
triumph. Arrayed like Solomon in wonderful clothes from the mysterious
and luxurious East, they returned at Christmas-tide and Easter from
college to break lances over Honora. Let us say it boldly--she was like
that: she had the world-old knack of sowing discord and despair in the
souls of young men. She was--as those who had known that fascinating
gentleman were not slow to remark--Randolph Leffingwell over again.

During the festival seasons, Uncle Tom averred, they wore out the latch
on the front gate. If their families possessed horses to spare, they
took Honora driving in Forest Park; they escorted her to those anomalous
dances peculiar to their innocent age, which are neither children's
parties nor full-fledged balls; their presents, while of no intrinsic
value--as one young gentleman said in a presentation speech--had an
enormous, if shy, significance.

"What a beautiful ring you are wearing, Honora," Uncle Tom remarked
slyly one April morning at breakfast; "let me see it."

Honora blushed, and hid her hand under the table-cloth.

And the ring-suffice it to say that her little finger was exactly
insertable in a ten-cent piece from which everything had been removed
but the milling: removed with infinite loving patience by Mr. Rossiter,
and at the expense of much history and philosophy and othe