And the proxy, what of her? How had she fared during her unusual fortnight? Patently, anything but ill. Under the sun of Lionel's sympathetic kindliness her virgin coldness melted. They talked together on every subject--men and women, books, art, music. Their views often clashed, but interest is sustained by conflict; complete agreement makes conversation a superfluity. Their conversation rarely descended to small talk, though more than once it became almost a quarrel. A quarrel of friends, be it understood,--a quarrel that left no bitterness behind, but made the next meeting more stored with interest, explanation, withdrawal, even partial conversion. Their chief debatable country was the stage; and at last Lionel had the happiness of winning the admission that the stage had possibly improved of recent years. A great admission for her! He paid his debt handsomely by a promise to read a book (five hundred and thirty-seven pages, eight volumes) on Christian Science. She gave him the book next day. Alas! it now reposes in the present historian's drawer, the leaves still innocent of the paper-knife. So a pretty comradeship sprang up between a cloistered lady and an ineligible worldling. The latter had never a penny, had not so long ago vowed himself to the service of another, declared upon his honor that his heart was no one's, lived for the moment on a false-won hospitality. What would be the end of such a revolting character? A queer sort of hero, in very truth; but the world is an asylum of lunatics seeking happiness by a host of roads. You who condemn the road of Lionel are asked to remember the stony paths he had trodden without complaint. Let him settle any difficulties of conscience for himself, and be not too hasty in your judgments. Let him at least have his fortnight of so-called happiness. If it be not in accordance with your ideas of the summum bonum, remember that it is not his. A fortnight in an oasis need not be grudged when the desert lies behind and before. If he has not learned wisdom you may be sure that he will ere long. Rub your hands, gentlemen, and look forward to a rare feast of disillusion and disenchantment! Possibly there may be an exposure, disgrace, even a prison if we are lucky and have patience. And if you can spare a little pickle for the rod, be good enough to pass it up!