"Yes," I said, smiling at her philosophy. "It would certainly save them a world of disappointment in after life. It has always struck me that the extravagant investiture of fancy does not belong, as is commonly supposed, to the meek, true and abiding attachment which it is woman's highest virtue and noblest distinction to feel. I strongly suspect it is vanity, and not affection, which leads a woman to believe her lover perfect; because it enhances her triumph to be the choice of such a man." "Ah! I'm glad that we agree, Ralph," she said with a sigh and an air of deep seriousness. "The part of the true-hearted woman is to be satisfied with her lover such as he is, old or young, and to consider him, with all his faults, as sufficiently perfect for her. No after development of character can then shake her faith, no ridicule or exposure can weaken her tenderness for a single moment; while, on the other hand, she who has blindly believed her lover to be without a fault, must ever be in danger of awaking to the conviction that her love exists no longer." "As in your own case," I added, in an endeavour to obtain from her the reason of this curious discourse. "My own case!" she echoed. "No, Ralph. I have never believed you to be a perfect ideal. I have loved you because I knew that you loved me. Our tastes are in common, our admiration for each other is mutual, and our affection strong and ever-increasing--until--until----" And faltering, she stopped abruptly, without concluding her sentence. "Until what?" I asked. Tears sprang to her eyes. One drop rolled down her white cheek until it reached her veil, and stood there sparkling beneath the light. "You know well," she said hoarsely. "Until the tragedy. From that moment, Ralph, you changed. You are not the same to me as formerly. I feel--I feel," she confessed, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly, "I feel that I have lost you." "Lost me! I don't understand," I said, feigning not to comprehend her. "I feel as though you no longer held me in esteem," she faltered through her tears. "Something tells me, Ralph, that--that your love for me has vanished, never to return!" With a sudden movement she raised her veil, and I saw how white and anxious was her fair countenance. I could not bring myself to believe that such a perfect face could conceal a heart blackened by the crime of murder. But, alas! all men are weak where a pretty woman is concerned. After all, it is feminine wiles and feminine graces that rule our world. Man is but a poor mortal at best, easily moved to sympathy by a woman's tears, and as easily misled by the touch of a soft hand or a passionate caress upon the lips. Diplomacy is inborn in woman, and although every woman is not an adventuress, yet one and all are clever actresses when the game of love is being played.