I imagine myself as Panurge, taking counsel with a Pantagruelian friend. “I am in love with Carlotta and desire to marry her.” “Then marry her,” says Pantagruel. “But she does not love me.” “Then don’t marry,” says Pantagruel. “But nay,” urges poor Panurge, “she would marry me according to any rite, civil or ecclesiastical, to-morrow.” _“Mariez-vous doncques de par dieu,”_ replies Pantagruel. “But I should be a villain to take advantage of her innocence and submission.” “Then don’t marry.” “But I can’t live without her,” says Panurge, desperately. “I am as a man bewitched. If I don’t marry her I shall waste away with longing.” “Then marry her in God’s name!” says Pantagruel. And I am no wiser by his counsel, and I have paraded the complication of my folly before mocking eyes. October 23d. I perceive that the young man of the idiot metaphor was gifted with piercing acumen. Beneath the Jaquesian melancholy of my temperament he diagnosed the potentiality of canine rabidness. No rational being is afflicted with this grotesque concentration of idea, this fierce hot fury waxing in intensity day by day. I must consult a brain specialist. October 25th. I went to Judith this afternoon, more to prove the loyalty of my friendship than to seek comfort from her society. Over tea we discussed the weather and books and her statistical work. It was dull, but unembarrassing. The grey twilight crept into the room and there was a pause in our talk. She broke it by asking, without looking at me: “When are we to have an evening together again?” “Whenever you like, my dear Judith.” “To-morrow?” “I am afraid not to-morrow,” said I. “Are you doing anything so very particular?” “I have arranged to take Carlotta to the Empire.” “Oh,” said Judith shortly, and I was left uncomfortable for another spell of silence. “It would be very kind, Marcus, to ask me to accompany you,” she said at last. “Carlotta and myself?” “Why not?” “My question arose from the stupidity of surprise,” said I. “I thought you disliked Carlotta.” “By no means. I should be glad to make her further acquaintance. Any one that interests you must also be interesting to me.” “In that case,” said I, “your coming will give us both the greatest possible pleasure.” “I haven’t had a merry evening for ever so long.” “We will dine somewhere first and have supper afterwards. The whole gamut of merriment. Toute la lyre. And you shall have,” I added, “some of your favourite Veuve Cliquot.” “It will be charming,” said Judith, politely. In fact, politeness has been the dominant note of her attitude to-day, a sober restraint of manner such as she would adopt when rather tired towards an ordinary acquaintance. Has she reconciled herself to the inevitable and taken this Empire frolic as a graceful method of showing it? I should like to believe so, but the course is scarcely consistent with that motor of illogic which she is pleased to call her temperament. I am puzzled.