ss my ignorance, and am willing to admit all you claim for this
wonderful invention. But do you think it compensates for the loss of the
individual person? Take my own case--if you will not think me personal.
I have never had the pleasure of seeing you; do you believe that I
am content with only that suggestion of your personality which the
satisfaction of hearing your voice affords me?"

There was a pause, and then a very mischievous ring in the voice
that replied: "It certainly is a personal question, and it is another
blessing of this invention that you'll never know whether I am blushing
or not; but I forgive you, for I never before spoke to any one I had
never seen--and I suppose it's confusion. But do you really think you
would know me--the REAL one--any better? It is the real person who
thinks and speaks, not the outward semblance that we see, which
very often unfairly either attracts or repels us? We can always SHOW
ourselves at our best, but we must, at last, reveal our true colors
through our thoughts and speech. Isn't it better to begin with the real
thing first?"

"I hope, at least, to have the privilege of judging by myself," said
Paul gallantly. "You will not be so cruel as not to let me see you
elsewhere, otherwise I shall feel as if I were in some dream, and will
certainly be opposed to your preference for realities."

"I am not certain if the dream would not be more interesting to you,"
said the voice laughingly. "But I think your hostess is already saying
'good-by.' You know everybody goes at once at this kind of party; the
ladies don't retire first, and the gentlemen join them afterwards. In
another moment we'll ALL be switched off; but Sir William wants me to
tell you that his coachman will drive you to your uncle's, unless
you prefer to try and make yourself comfortable for the night here.
Good-by!"

The voices around him seemed to grow fainter, and then utterly cease.
The lights suddenly leaped up, went out, and left him in complete
darkness. He attempted to rise, but in doing so overset the dishes
before him, which slid to the floor. A cold air seemed to blow across
his feet. The "good-by" was still ringing in his ears as he straightened
himself to find he was in his railway carriage, whose door had just been
opened for a young lady who was entering the compartment from a wayside
station. "Good-by," she repeated to the friend who was seeing her off.
The Writer of Stories hurriedly straightened