“So I will. I could not resist the temptation of telling you of it again, because you are so much mistaken in your accusation. And now about your novel.” “It isn’t mine, you know.” “Not yours?” “Not my own, Mr. Brown.” “Then whose is it?” Mr. Brown, as he asked this question, felt that he had a right to be offended. “Are you not Josephine de Montmorenci?” “Me an author! Oh no, Mr. Brown,” said the pretty little woman. And our editor almost thought that he could see a smile on her lips as she spoke. “Then who are you?” asked Mr. Brown. “I am her sister;--or rather her sister-in-law. My name is Mrs. Puffle.” How could Mrs. Puffle be the sister-in-law of Miss de Montmorenci? Some such thought as this passed through the editor’s mind, but it was not followed out to any conclusion. Relationships are complex things, and, as we all know, give rise to most intricate questions. In the half-moment that was allowed to him Mr. Brown reflected that Mrs. Puffle might be the sister-in-law of a Miss de Montmorenci; or, at least, half sister-in-law. It was even possible that Mrs. Puffle, young as she looked, might have been previously married to a de Montmorenci. Of all that, however, he would not now stop to unravel the details, but endeavoured as he went on to take some comfort from the fact that Puffle was no doubt Charles. Josephine might perhaps have no Charles. And then it became evident to him that the little fair, smiling, dimpled thing before him could hardly have written “Not so Black as he’s Painted,” with all its metaphysics. Josephine must be made of sterner stuff. And, after all, for an adventure, little dimples and a blue parasol are hardly appropriate. There should be more of stature than Mrs. Puffle possessed, with dark hair, and piercing eyes. The colour of the dress should be black, with perhaps yellow trimmings; and the hand should not be of pearly whiteness,--as Mrs. Puffle’s no doubt was, though the well-fitting little glove gave no absolute information on this subject. For such an adventure the appropriate colour of the skin would be,--we will not say sallow exactly,--but running a little that way. The beauty should be just toned by sadness; and the blood, as it comes and goes, should show itself, not in blushes, but in the mellow, changing lines of the brunette. All this Mr. Brown understood very well. “Oh,--you are Mrs. Puffle,” said Brown, after a short but perhaps insufficient pause. “You are Charles Puffle’s wife?” “Do you know Charles?” asked the lady, putting up both her little hands. “We don’t want him to hear anything about this. You haven’t told him?” “I’ve told him nothing as yet,” said Mr. Brown. “Pray don’t. It’s a secret. Of course he’ll know it some day. Oh, Mr. Brown, you won’t betray us. How very odd that you should know Charles!” “Does he smoke as much as ever, Mrs. Puffle?” “How very odd that he never should have mentioned it! Is it at his office that you see him?”