s of politeness, have been animating
influences throughout; acting under conditions which assist the effort
of self-control. And for this reason: the man who has never really
taken a high place in our regard is unprovided with those sharpest
weapons of provocation, which make unendurable demands on human
fortitude. In a true attachment, on the other hand, there is an
innocent familiarity implied, which is forgetful of ceremony, and blind
to consequences. The affectionate freedom which can speak kindly
without effort is sensitive to offence, and can speak harshly without
restraint. When the friend who wounds us has once been associated with
the sacred memories of the heart, he strikes at a tender place, and no
considerations of propriety are powerful enough to stifle our cry of
rage and pain. The enemies who have once loved each other are the
bitterest enemies of all.

Thus, the curt exchange of question and answer, which had taken place
in the cottage at Passy, between two gentlemen artificially friendly to
one another, led to no regrettable result. Lord Harry had been too
readily angry: he remembered what was due to Mr. Mountjoy. Mr. Mountjoy
had been too thoughtlessly abrupt: he remembered what was due to Lord
Harry. The courteous Irishman bowed, and pointed to a chair. The
well-bred Englishman returned the polite salute, and sat down. My lord
broke the silence that followed.

"May I hope that you will excuse me," he began, "if I walk about the
room? Movement seems to help me when I am puzzled how to put things
nicely. Sometimes I go round and round the subject, before I get at it.
I'm afraid I'm going round and round, now. Have you arranged to make a
long stay in Paris?"

Circumstances, Mountjoy answered, would probably decide him.

"You have no doubt been many times in Paris before this," Lord Harry
continued. "Do you find it at all dull, now?"

Wondering what he could possibly mean, Hugh said he never found Paris
dull--and waited for further enlightenment. The Irish lord persisted:

"People mostly think Paris isn't as gay as it used to be. Not such good
plays and such good actors as they had at one time. The restaurants
inferior, and society very much mixed. People don't stay there as long
as they used. I'm told that Americans are getting disappointed, and are
trying London for a change."

Could he have any serious motive for this irrelevant way of talking? Or
was he, to judge by his own account of himself,