rich _parvenus_; on this point I belong to the
eleventh century."

"And I also," I said. "But why despair? Are there no aged peers?"

"You are an apt scholar, Louise!" he exclaimed.

Then he left me, smiling and kissing my hand.

I received your letter this very morning, and it led me to contemplate
that abyss into which you say that I may fall. A voice within seemed
to utter the same warning. So I took my precautions. Henarez, my dear,
dares to look at me, and his eyes are disquieting. They inspire me with
what I can only call an unreasoning dread. Such a man ought no more to
be looked at than a frog; he is ugly and fascinating.

For two days I have been hesitating whether to tell my father
point-blank that I want no more Spanish lessons and have Henarez sent
about his business. But in spite of all my brave resolutions, I feel
that the horrible sensation which comes over me when I see that man has
become necessary to me. I say to myself, "Once more, and then I will
speak."

His voice, my dear, is sweetly thrilling; his speaking is just like la
Fodor's singing. His manners are simple, entirely free from affectation.
And what teeth!

Just now, as he was leaving, he seemed to divine the interest I take
in him, and made a gesture--oh! most respectfully--as though to take my
hand and kiss it; then checked himself, apparently terrified at his own
boldness and the chasm he had been on the point of bridging. There was
the merest suggestion of all this, but I understood it and smiled, for
nothing is more pathetic than to see the frank impulse of an inferior
checking itself abashed. The love of a plebeian for a girl of noble
birth implies such courage!

My smile emboldened him. The poor fellow looked blindly about for his
hat; he seemed determined not to find it, and I handed it to him with
perfect gravity. His eyes were wet with unshed tears. It was a mere
passing moment, yet a world of facts and ideas were contained in it. We
understood each other so well that, on a sudden, I held out my hand for
him to kiss.

Possibly this was equivalent to telling him that love might bridge
the interval between us. Well, I cannot tell what moved me to do it.
Griffith had her back turned as I proudly extended my little white paw.
I felt the fire of his lips, tempered by two big tears. Oh! my love, I
lay in my armchair, nerveless, dreamy. I was happy, and I cannot
explain to you how or why. What I felt only a poet could express.
My