A crimson flush rose to the brow of her visitor. But her rage only strengthened her determination to subdue her foe, superior as she could not but acknowledge her to be. "Yes, what you say is true: I love forms, because they are pleasant and useful. I hate propriety, because it would be our master, and by propriety you mean decorum--I understand you perfectly. Yes, then, yes: I love the forms of society, that give an æsthetic charm to existence, and make it smooth and easy, but I hate what people call decorum. When, in despair at the tyranny of my first husband, and utterly loathing his rude vulgarity, I left him by stealth, and fled, at peril of my life, across the half-frozen Neva to my father, to share his solitude and poverty, I acted honourably, but every one condemned me, the runaway wife was an object of scorn,--she had sinned against the laws of decorum. But when, after my divorce, I married the old Count Worronska, simply because I coveted rank and wealth, I acted dishonourably, but I had done nothing indecorous. Every one bowed low before me, and I found myself an object of respect to others when I was so deeply sunk in my own esteem. And can I do homage to decorum, the idol to which we are sacrificed, the empty scarecrow that the selfishness of men sets up to keep us within our prison-walls? In the folds of its garment lie hidden tyranny, hate and revenge, jealousy and envy, malice and uncharitableness, ready to crawl out like poisonous serpents and attack its victims. What free spirit will not curse it if it has ever been aware of even the shadow of its rod? I began by cursing it, but I have ended by despising it. I have sworn hostility to it, and, trust me, there is a rare delight in stripping it of its mask. Louisa A---- contends against it with far nobler weapons-than it deserves. It is not worth the going out to meet it with such solemn pathos. A hundred years hence, the world will laugh to think that it should have had power to annoy such a woman as Louisa." She ceased, and looked into Ernestine's face to see the effect of her words. But there was no change of feature there. "I cannot vie with you in your style of speaking, Countess Worronska. I am used to plain thoughts. I am not practised in metaphor, and cannot adorn what I say with such wealth of imagery. I can only reply plainly and frankly to what you say, that what you designate as our foe I consider our protection, and that it is a far different foe that I contend with. Therefore we should never agree, and it is a useless waste of time to attempt any closer intercourse." The countess started, and the colour left her lips, so tightly were they compressed. Yet she would make one more attempt. She regarded Ernestine with a look of profound compassion, and possessed herself of her reluctant hand. "Poor child! does even your bold spirit languish in the fetters of prejudice? What a pity! How inconceivable! And will you tell me what foe it is that you wish to subdue?"