twice a year. How the coals glow between the bars, how the red light
shimmers on the black-lead bricks, how the posset steams upon the hob!
Milk or tea, cocoa or coffee, poor commonplace liquids, are they not
transmuted in the alembic of a bedroom fire, till they become nepenthe
for a heartache or a philtre for romance? Ah, the romance of it, when
youth forestalls to-morrow's conquest, when middle life forgets that
yesterday is past for ever, when even querulous old age thinks it may
still have its "honour and its toil"!

An old blue cloak, which served the turn of dressing-gown, had fallen
apart in the exigencies of composition, and showed underlying tracts of
white nightgown. Below, the firelight fell on bare feet resting on the
edge of the brass fender till the heat made her curl up her toes, and
above, the firelight contoured certain generous curves. The roundness
and the bloom of maidenhood was upon her, that bloom so transient, so
irreplaceable, that renders any attempt to simulate it so
profoundly ludicrous. The mass of dark hair, which turned
lying-and-mischief-making Mrs Flint so envious, was gathered behind
with a bow of black ribbon, and hung loosely over the back of her chair.
She sat there writing and rewriting, erasing, blotting, tearing up,
till the night was far spent, till she feared that the modest resources
of the _papeterie_ would be exhausted before toil came to fruition.

It was finished at last, and if it was a little formal or high-flown, or
stilted, is not a certain formality postulated on momentous occasions?
Who would write that he was "delighted" to accept a bishopric? Who
would go to a levee in a straw hat?

"Dear Lord Blandamer" (the letter ran),

"I do not know how I ought to write to you, for I have little
experience of life to guide me. I thank you with all my heart for
what you have told me. I am glad to think of it, and I always shall
be. I believe there must be many strong reasons why you should not
think of marrying me, yet if there are, you must know them far better
than I, and you have disregarded them. But there is one reason that
you cannot know, for it is known to very few; I hope it is known only
to some of our own relations. Perhaps I ought not to write of it at
all, but I have no one to advise me. I mean what is right, and if I
am doing wrong you will forgive me, will you not? and burn this letter
when you have read it.

"I have no