t ugly little Louis Philippe bureau
. . . No! No! it would never do to gush, for these things would see .
. . and, though they might not remember, they would remind.

And Louisa counted herself one of the strong ones of this earth. Just
think of her name. Have you ever known a Louisa who gushed? who called
herself the happiest woman on earth? who thought of a man--just an
ordinary man, mind you--as the best, the handsomest, the truest, the
most perfect hero of romance that ever threw a radiance over the
entire prosy world of the twentieth century?

Louisas, believe me, do no such things. The Mays and the Floras, the
Lady Barbaras and Lady Edithas, look beatific and charming when,
clasping their lily-white hands together and raising violet eyes to
the patterned ceiling paper above them, they exclaim: "Oh, my hero and
my king!"

But Louisas would only look ridiculous if they behaved like that . . .
Louisa Harris, too! . . . Louisa, the eldest of three sisters, the
daughter of a wealthy English gentleman with a fine estate in Kent, an
assured position, no troubles, no cares, nothing in her life to make
it sad, or sordid or interesting . . . Louisa Harris and romance! . .
. Why, she was not even pretty. She had neither violet eyes nor hair
of ruddy gold. The latter was brown and the former were gray. . . .
How could romance come in the way of gray eyes, and of a girl named
Louisa?

Can you conceive, for instance, one of those adorable detrimentals of
low degree and empty pocket who have a way of arousing love in the
hearts of the beautiful daughters of irascible millionaires, can you
conceive such an interesting personage, I say, falling in love with
Louisa Harris?

I confess that I cannot. To begin with, dear, kind Squire Harris was
not altogether a millionaire, and not at all irascible, and penniless
owners of romantic personalities were not on his visiting list.

Therefore Louisa, living a prosy life of luxury, got up every morning,
ate a copious breakfast, walked out with the dogs, hunted in the
autumn, skated in the winter, did the London season, and played tennis
in the summer, just as hundreds and hundreds of other well-born,
well-bred English girls of average means, average positions, average
education, hunt, dance, and play tennis throughout the length and
breadth of this country.

There was no room for romance in such a life, no time for it. . . .
The life itself was so full already--so full of the humdru