g the
impression of knowing you extremely well. Dorothy reads me your letters
from the _Daily Tory_; she has elevated literary tastes, you know. No,
it is not what you write, it is the way you write it, that charms her;
and, that I may the better appreciate, she obligingly accompanies her
readings with remarks descriptive of the author."

"Bess, do you think that fair?" and Dorothy's face put on a reproachful
red.

"At least it's true," returned Bess composedly.

That morning Richard had been flattered with a letter from the editor of
a magazine, asking for a five-thousand word article on a leading
personality of the Cabinet. This helped him bear the raillery of Bess;
and the raillery, per incident, told him how much and deeply he was in
the thoughts of Dorothy, which information made the world extremely
beautiful. Richard had waited until his thirtieth year to begin to live!
He was brought back from a dream of Dorothy by the unexpected projection
of Mr. Fopling into the conversation.

"The _Daily Tory_!" repeated Mr. Fopling, in feeble disgust. "I hate
newspapahs; they inflame the mawsses."

"Inflame what?" asked Richard.

"Inflame the mawsses! the common fellahs!"

Mr. Fopling was emphatic; and when Mr. Fopling was emphatic he squeaked.
Mr. Fopling's father had been a beef contractor. Likewise he had seen
trouble with investigating committees, being convicted of bad beef. This
may or may not have had to do with the younger Fopling's aversion to the
press.

"Certainly," coincided Bess, again assuming the maternal, "the
newspapers are exceedingly inflammatory."

"Your friend Bess," said Richard to Dorothy, later, "is a bit of a
blue-stocking, isn't she?--one of those girls who give themselves to the
dangerous practice of thinking?"

"I love her from my heart!" returned Dorothy, with a splendid
irrelevance wholly feminine; "she is a girl of gold!"

"Mr. Fopling: he's of gold, too, I take it."

"Mr. Fopling is very wealthy."

"Well, I'm glad he's something," observed Richard.

"You hate him because he spoke ill of newspapers," said Dorothy
teasingly.

"Naturally, when a giant hand is stretched forth against the tree by
which one lives, one's alarm runs away into hate," laughed Richard.

Richard, now that the _Daily Tory_ letters were winning praise, that is
to say, were being greatly applauded and condemned, began to have in
them a mightier pride than ever. Educated those years abroad, he felt
the wa