'There--read it!' said Ethelberta, with glad displeasure. 'Did you ever hear such audacity? Fixing a time so soon that I cannot reply, and thus making capital out of a pretended necessity, when it is really an arbitrary arrangement of his own. That's real rebellion--forcing himself into my house when I said strictly he was not to come; and then, that it cannot rationally be objected to--I don't like his "rationally."' 'Where there's much love there's little ceremony, didn't you say just now?' observed innocent Picotee. 'And where there's little love, no ceremony at all. These manners of his are dreadful, and I believe he will never improve.' 'It makes you care not a bit about him, does it not, Berta?' said Picotee hopefully. 'I don't answer for that,' said Ethelberta. 'I feel, as many others do, that a want of ceremony which is produced by abstraction of mind is no defect in a poet or musician, fatal as it may be to an ordinary man.' 'Mighty me! You soon forgive him.' 'Picotee, don't you be so quick to speak. Before I have finished, how do you know what I am going to say? I'll never tell you anything again, if you take me up so. Of course I am going to punish him at once, and make him remember that I am a lady, even if I do like him a little.' 'How do you mean to punish him?' said Picotee, with interest. 'By writing and telling him that on no account is he to come.' 'But there is not time for a letter--' 'That doesn't matter. It will show him that I did not mean him to come.' At hearing the very merciful nature of the punishment, Picotee sighed without replying; and Ethelberta despatched her note. The hour of appointment drew near, and Ethelberta showed symptoms of unrest. Six o'clock struck and passed. She walked here and there for nothing, and it was plain that a dread was filling her: her letter might accidentally have had, in addition to the moral effect which she had intended, the practical effect which she did not intend, by arriving before, instead of after, his purposed visit to her, thereby stopping him in spite of all her care. 'How long are letters going to Bloomsbury?' she said suddenly. 'Two hours, Joey tells me,' replied Picotee, who had already inquired on her own private account. 'There!' exclaimed Ethelberta petulantly. 'How I dislike a man to misrepresent things! He said there was not time for a reply!' 'Perhaps he didn't know,' said Picotee, in angel tones; 'and so it happens all right, and he has got it, and he will not come after all.'