This is the secret of Mrs. Willoweed’s supremacy. She knows all this, and never makes a mistake. This is how she keeps so many of her old admirers. Life is to her a game of cards, in which hearts are always trumps; and she plays the game so prettily that, even though she never loses, there is never a whisper of unfairness. Perhaps if she were a little more cautious not to let outsiders see so much of the game, it would be none the worse for her; but, with all her skill at heart-conjuring, she is a very guileless little person. Her own heart is open as the day to melting sympathy, and she is as innocent as daylight. She never hides anything, she never does anything to hide; she only tries to live cheerily and pleasantly, and make as many people happy as possible. Why should she be condemned to wear moral sackcloth and ashes all her life because she is a widow and does not choose to marry again? She does not concern herself about the goings-on of other women; why should they be so anxious to catch her tripping, why should they be always on the watch? Of course she never means to give them the chance, but, nevertheless, it is irksome to feel that every woman’s eye is open against her, every woman’s ear ready to catch the faintest suggestion of an echo of a rumour. Why is it? Surely it is not because Mrs. Willoweed is exceedingly pretty and remarkably accomplished, for other women have been equally so, and yet have failed to awaken the suspicions of their sex and to keep Mrs. Grundy on the _qui vive_. It cannot be because Mrs. Willoweed dresses so beautifully, that, whether in walking costume, tea-gown, or ball-dress, she looks as though the art of attire has reached on her its climax of perfection, for there be as good dresses in Bond Street as ever came out of it, and all beautiful women are made to be well-dressed—Mrs. Willoweed has no monopoly. Mrs. Willoweed is a pretty little widow, and there is the gist of the matter. Like Hester Prynne, she carries about her a scarlet letter, though visible only to the mental eye of women with husbands and brothers and lovers, and that letter is D, which stands for Dangerous. You see there is no barrier of ingenuousness to be broken down, no safeguard of a husband-in-law. She is experienced, accessible, and free, and withal fatally fascinating. She is a dead shot with Cupid’s arrow, and never misses her mark. It is not, therefore, to be wondered that women with susceptible male belongings fear to trust them within the magic sphere of Mrs. Willoweed, and that their fears are apt to get the better of their reason and their charity. But, after all, poor little Mrs. Willoweed is entirely innocent of the matrimonial or amorous designs that are placed to her charge in such a sweeping and illogical fashion.