"I married very young," continues Mrs. Mounteagle, "and my husband was nearly eighty. Yes," noting her visitor's surprise, "rather a difference in our ages, wasn't there? "Love, my dear Mrs. Roche, is a science; you can learn it with careful study, and make it always accommodating, pleasant, and never vulgarly effusive. Do not imagine that the first bloom of youth gleans all the peaches, leaving only apples for after years. A clever woman seldom grows old. She erases Time with the same nimble fingers with which she creates her boudoir, and makes it appear part of her being. You admire my sanctum, and small wonder. It has cost me sleepless nights as long as the furniture bills. I invented it. These chairs for instance were not arranged, they _occurred_. The minutest detail has positively been prayed over. Look at my quaint treasures! If other hands had placed them they might appear ignoble, debased. You see the curve of this pillowed couch, the tint of the curtains, it is _Art_, Mrs. Roche, Art with a big _A_." "I am dreadfully envious," cries Eleanor, "there is no artistic genius in me." "It must be born in the blood, but if you like I will 'compose' you a room. It shall be like a melody (if you can grasp the comparison)--subtle, entrancing." "You are _wonderful_!" says Eleanor solemnly. "It is all so like a fairy palace, and you are the fairy, Mrs. Mounteagle." "Then, in the guise of a mysterious gnome, let me give you a word of warning. You are a stranger in Richmond; pray take care not to get into a clique. They are so numerous and unhealthy, so full of civil wars and petty strife, that existence becomes poisoned, and all the romance of life is swept aside, seared, wasted!" "Thank you," replies Eleanor, rising reluctantly and giving Mrs. Mounteagle both her hands. "How good you have been to me to-day!" "I hope we shall see a great deal of each other," answers the widow softly, "and be very great friends." "It shan't be my fault if we are not," responds Mrs. Roche. They part. "Oh, ma'am! Master's been home an hour, and he's frightened to death about you." Thus Sarah greets her on her return. CHAPTER V. "THE FLY THAT SIPS TREACLE IS LOST IN THE SWEETS." "I am tired of arguing the subject," declares Philip hotly, rising from his chair and pacing the room. "If you _will_ disregard my wishes and go your own way, well----" "Let me, that's all!" retorts Eleanor. "No wonder you have hardly a single friend in Richmond, if your whole time is spent with Mrs. Mounteagle," he replied. "I don't want other friends--I dislike them, Philip, and what is the good of pretending friendship for people you don't care a button about? There is not a woman in the place that can hold a candle to Giddy." "Oh, it's 'Giddy' now, is it?" "Why not? I have known her nearly three months."