The good old days, when Traddles and Sophy lived in chambers, and entertained half a dozen of “the dear girls,” were no more. Mr. Wynne was obliged to set up his little tent outside the venerable precincts, in the second floor front of Solferino Place. To Madeline it was a palace, because it was her very own. Here she might poke the fire, alter the arrangement of the furniture, pile on coals, order tea at any time, and go out and come in as she pleased. She could scarcely realize such liberty! Neither could she realize her wedding-ring, and she frequently stared for a moment in doubt when she heard herself called “Mrs. Wynne.” Laurence was not so poor as she imagined, for he hired a piano, bought her songs, flowers, and--oh! joy--three such pretty new dresses; he took her to the theatres, for walks in the parks (when he had time), he showed her most of the sights of London--St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, the National Gallery, and the Tower. He was even extravagant in one line. He laid out for her a reckless amount of shillings and half-crowns on literary papers, magazines, and books. Laurence was fond of reading; she was not, and she little knew how she startled him when she exclaimed, “Besides all the other hateful things you have delivered me from, Laurence, you have delivered me from _books_! I never wish to open one again!” Now Laurence had been looking forward to introducing his pretty Madeline to all the great masters in English literature, to hearing her fresh comments, to sharing her raptures, to comparing first impressions, favourite pieces, favourite characters; in short, to opening for this girl of eighteen the portals of a new world. Alas! it soon became evident that Madeline had an absolute lack of literary taste. She had a taste for music, for flowers; a marvellous taste in colours, and in dress; but for reading, as he understood it, not an atom. (At first he had had visions of reading her some sketches and articles of his own, but soon changed his mind, and kept his MS. in his writing-desk.) He read aloud well, and selected, as he believed, gems; but, unfortunately, Mrs. Wynne preferred paste! Lamb’s essays were “quite too awfully dry.” Wordsworth was ten times worse--she could hardly stifle her yawns. And even when he was reading “Silas Marner,” and, as he considered, George Eliot’s masterpiece, he noticed that Madeline was shyly perusing the advertisements in a ladies’ newspaper. She looked so nonplussed and unhappy if he paused and suddenly asked her, “If that was not fine? and how such and such a passage struck her?” At length he relinquished his efforts. It was time, when Madeline, with a pretty pout, said, “My dear Laurence, I might as well be at school; you are just talking like Mr. Falk, our professor of English literature. Such an ugly little mummy.” “And to whom you never listened?”