In writing this, I recollect that I myself once had the chance of passing all my life in this enviable safety, and as you may suppose, dear Madame, I curse myself that I should ever have had the courage to step beyond the boundaries of this fine tranquil state. Yet, too, there have been times when I have asked myself: “Do we really differ from the wealthy--we others, birds of the fields, who have our own philosophy, grown from the pains of needing bread--we who see that the human heart is not always an affair of figures, or of those good maxims that one finds in copy-books--do we really differ?” It is with shame that I confess to have asked myself a question so heretical. But now, when for these four weeks I have had the fortune of this rest beneath your roof, I see how wrong I was to entertain such doubts. It is a great happiness to have decided once for all this point, for it is not in my character to pass through life uncertain--mistaken, perhaps--on psychological matters such as these. No, Madame; rest happily assured that there is a great difference, which in the future will be sacred for me. For, believe me, Madame, it would be calamity for high Society if by chance there should arise amongst them any understanding of all that side of life which--vast as the plains and bitter as the sea, black as the ashes of a corpse, and yet more free than any wings of birds who fly away--is so justly beyond the grasp of their philosophy. Yes, believe me, dear Madame, there is no danger in the world so much to be avoided by all the members of that circle, most illustrious, most respectable, called high Society. From what I have said you may imagine how hard it is for me to take my flight. I shall always keep for you the most distinguished sentiments. With the expression of my full regard for you and your good family, and of a gratitude as sincere as it is badly worded, Believe me, dear Madame, Your devoted LOUIS FERRAND. Shelton's first impulse was to tear the letter up, but this he reflected he had no right to do. Remembering, too, that Mrs. Dennant's French was orthodox, he felt sure she would never understand the young foreigner's subtle innuendoes. He closed the envelope and went to bed, haunted still by Ferrand's parting look. It was with no small feeling of embarrassment, however, that, having sent the letter to its destination by an early footman, he made his appearance at the breakfast-table. Behind the Austrian coffee-urn, filled with French coffee, Mrs. Dennant, who had placed four eggs in a German egg-boiler, said “Good-morning,” with a kindly smile. “Dick, an egg?” she asked him, holding up a fifth. “No, thank you,” replied Shelton, greeting the table and fitting down. He was a little late; the buzz of conversation rose hilariously around. “My dear,” continued Mr. Dennant, who was talking to his youngest daughter, “you'll have no chance whatever--not the least little bit of chance.”