Mrs. Vivian had remarked to Blanche that it was very kind of her to come first, and Blanche declared that she could not have laid her head on her pillow before she had seen her dear Mrs. Vivian. “Do you suppose I would wait because I am married?” she inquired, with a keen little smile in her charming eyes. “I am not so much married as that, I can tell you! Do you think I look much as if I were married, with no one to bring me here to-night but Captain Lovelock?” “I am sure Captain Lovelock is a very gallant escort,” said Mrs. Vivian. “Oh, he was not afraid--that is, he was not afraid of the journey, though it lay all through those dreadful wild Champs Elysees. But when we arrived, he was afraid to come in--to come up here. Captain Lovelock is so modest, you know--in spite of all the success he had in America. He will tell you about the success he had in America; it quite makes up for the defeat of the British army in the Revolution. They were defeated in the Revolution, the British, were n’t they? I always told him so, but he insists they were not. ‘How do we come to be free, then?’ I always ask him; ‘I suppose you admit that we are free.’ Then he becomes personal and says that I am free enough, certainly. But it ‘s the general fact I mean; I wish you would tell him about the general fact. I think he would believe you, because he knows you know a great deal about history and all that. I don’t mean this evening, but some time when it is convenient. He did n’t want to come in--he wanted to stay in the carriage and smoke a cigar; he thought you would n’t like it, his coming with me the first time. But I told him he need n’t mind that, for I would certainly explain. I would be very careful to let you know that I brought him only as a substitute. A substitute for whom? A substitute for my husband, of course. My dear Mrs. Vivian, of course I ought to bring you some pretty message from Gordon--that he is dying to come and see you, only that he had nineteen letters to write and that he could n’t possibly stir from his fireside. I suppose a good wife ought to invent excuses for her husband--ought to throw herself into the breach; is n’t that what they call it? But I am afraid I am not a good wife. Do you think I am a good wife, Mr. Longueville? You once stayed three months with us, and you had a chance to see. I don’t ask you that seriously, because you never tell the truth. I always do; so I will say I am not a good wife. And then the breach is too big, and I am too little. Oh, I am too little, Mrs. Vivian; I know I am too little. I am the smallest woman living; Gordon can scarcely see me with a microscope, and I believe he has the most powerful one in America. He is going to get another here; that is one of the things he came abroad for; perhaps it will do better. I do tell the truth, don’t I, Mrs. Vivian? I have that merit, if I have n’t any other. You once told me so at Baden; you