"What do you suppose there is attractive about you, Mr. Quarren--if you really do amount to as little as you pretend? I've seen handsomer men, monsieur, wealthier men, more intelligent men; men more experienced, men of far greater talents and attainments. "Why do you suppose that I sit here in the Southern sunshine writing to you when there are dozens of men perfectly ready to amuse me?--and qualified to do it, too! "For the sake of your _beaux-yeux_? _Non pas!_ "But there is a _something_ which the world recognises as a subtle and nameless sympathy. And it stretches an invisible filament between you and the girl who is writing to you. "That tie is not founded on sentiment; I think you know that. And, of things spiritual, you and I have never yet spoken. "Therefore I conclude that the tie must be purely intellectual; that mind calls to mind and finds contentment in the far response. "So, when you pretend to me that you are of no intellectual account, you pay me a scurvy compliment. _Quod erat demonstrandum._ "With this gentle reproof I seal my long, long letter, and go where the jasmine twineth and the orchestra playeth; for it is tea-time, my friend, and the Park of Peacocks is all a-glitter with plumage. Soft eyes look wealth to eyes that ask again; and all is brazen as a dinner bell! "O friend! do you know that since I have been here I might have attained to fortune, had I cared to select any one of several generous gentlemen who have been good enough to thrust that commodity at me? "To be asked to marry a man no longer distresses me. I am all over the romantic idea of being sorry for wealthy amateurs who make me a plain business proposition, offering to invest a fortune in my good looks. To amateurs, connoisseurs, and collectors, there is no such thing as a fixed market value to anything. An object of art is worth what it can be bought for. I don't yet know how much I am worth. I may yet find out. "There are nice men here, odious men, harmless men, colourless men, worthy men, and the ever-present fool. He is really the happiest, I suppose. "Then, all in a class by himself, is an Englishman, one Sir Charles Mallison. I don't know what to tell you about him except that I feel exceedingly safe and comfortable when I am with him. "He says very little; I say even less. But it is agreeable to be with him. "He is middle-aged, and, I imagine, very wise. Perhaps his reticence makes me think so. He and Mr. Wycherly shoot ducks on the lagoon--and politics into each other. "I must go. You are not here to persuade me to stay and talk nonsense to you against my better judgment. You're quite helpless, you see. So I'm off. "Will you write to me again?