r dinner as usual, so that if Pallida
Mors be indeed among us she looks just like every one else. I came
to Aix from my own place on the White Sea, and the gay groups, the
bright alleys, the green embowered chalets, and the goatherds with
their flocks which come tinkling their bells down the hill-sides in
all directions, all seemed to me like an operetta of Offenbach's,
spiritualized and washed with the pure daylight and the
mountain-air, but still Offenbach. How are your children? Do they
still care for me? That is very sweet of them. A day at their years
is as long as a season at mine. Assure them of my unforgetting
gratitude. I shall be pleased to be in England again, and, though I
do not know Surrenden, my recollections of Orme tell me _d'avance_
that I shall in any house of yours find the kindest of friends, the
most sympathetic of companions. Say many things to your lord for
me. I think he is only so discontented because the gods have been
too good to him and given him too completely everything he can
desire." ("That's all _she_ knows about it!" says Usk, _sotto
voce_.) "_Au revoir_, dear Lady Usk. Receive the assurance of my
highest consideration, and believe in my sincere regard. _Bien a
vous._--XENIA P. SABAROFF."

"A very pretty letter," says Brandolin. "Many thanks." And he restores
it to its owner.

"Bunkum!" says Usk.

"Not a bit in the world," says his wife, with contempt and indignation.
"_She_ does not 'pose,' if you do!"

"My dear George," says Brandolin, "you are one of those thorough-going
Britons who always think that everybody who doesn't deal in disagreeable
remarks must be lying. Believe me, there are people who really see 'the
side that's next the sun,'--even in a crab-apple."

"And deuced irritating, too, they are," says Usk, with emphasis. "'What
a beastly bad day,' one says to 'em when it's pouring cats and dogs, and
they answer, 'Oh, yes, but rain was so wanted we must be thankful.'
That's the kind of answer that would make a saint swear."

"You are not a saint, and you swear on small provocation," replies
Brandolin. "To look at rain in that light argues true philosophy.
Unfortunately, philosophy is too often strained to bursting in our
climate, by having to contemplate rain destroying the crops. If we only
had rain when we wanted it, I think the most unreasonable among us would
view it with