devices; how many subtleties
that only beauty wields, or simple man is vanquished by!

It was considerably past midnight as the two girls sat at the fire,
their dressing-gowns and slippered feet showing that they had prepared
for bed; but the long luxuriant hair, as yet uncurled, flowed in heavy
masses on their neck and shoulders. They did not, as usual, converse
freely together; a silence and a kind of constraint sat upon each, and
although Olivia held a book before her, it was less for the purpose of
reading than as a screen against the fire, while her sister sat with
folded arms and gently drooping head, apparently lost in thought. It was
after a very lengthened silence, and in a voice which showed that the
speaker was following up some train of thought, Miss Kennyfeck said,--

"And do you really think him handsome, Olivia?"

"Of whom are you speaking, dear?" said Olivia, with the very softest
accent.

Miss Kennyfeck started; her pale cheeks became slightly red as, with a
most keen irony, she replied, "Could you not guess? Can I mean any one
but Mr. Clare Jones?"

"Oh, he's a downright fright," answered the other; "but what could have
made you think of him?"

"I was not thinking of him, nor were you either, sister dear," said Miss
Kennyfeck, fixing her eyes full upon her; "we were both thinking of the
same person. Come, what use in such subterfuges? Honesty, Livy, may not
be the 'best policy,' but it has one great advantage,--it saves a deal
of time; and so I repeat my question, do you think him handsome?"

"If you mean Mr. Cashel, dearest," said the younger, half bashfully, "I
rather incline to say he is. His eyes are very good; his forehead and
brow--"

"There,--no inventory, I beg,--the man is very well-looking, I dare say,
but I own he strikes me as _tant soit peu sauvage_. Don't you think so?"

"True, his manners--"

"Why, he has none; the man has a certain rakish, free-and-easy demeanor
that, with somewhat more breeding, would rise as high as 'tigerism,' but
now is detestable vulgarity."

"Oh, dearest, you are severe."

"I rather suspect that you are partial."

"I, my dear! not I, in the least. He is not, by any means, the style
of person I like. He can be very amusing, perhaps; he certainly is very
odd, very original."

"He is very rich, Livy," said the elder sister, with a most dry gravity.

"That can scarcely be called a fault, still less a misfortune," replied
Olivia, slyly.

"Well, we