so hard
to be her friend without becoming her lover. I have said before that she
turns the subjects of her Circe-like enchantment, not into swine, but
into lambs. The Professor and I move round among her lambs, the docile
and amiable flock that come and go at her bidding, that follow her
footsteps, and are content to live in the sunshine of her smile and
within reach of the music of her voice. I like to get her away from
their amiable bleatings; I love to talk with her about life, of which she
has seen a great deal, for she knows what it is to be an idol in society
and the centre of her social circle. It might be a question whether
women or men most admire and love her. With her own sex she is always
helpful, sympathizing, tender, charitable, sharing their griefs as well
as taking part in their pleasures. With men it has seemed to make little
difference whether they were young or old: all have found her the same
sweet, generous, unaffected companion; fresh enough in feeling for the
youngest, deep enough in the wisdom of the heart for the oldest. She
does not pretend to be youthful, nor does she trouble herself that she
has seen the roses of more Junes than many of--the younger women who
gather round her. She has not had to say,

Comme je regrette
Mon bras si dodu,

for her arm has never lost its roundness, and her face is one of those
that cannot be cheated of their charm even if they live long enough to
look upon the grown up grandchildren of their coevals.

It is a wonder how Number Five can find the time to be so much to so many
friends of both sexes, in spite of the fact that she is one of the most
insatiable of readers. She not only reads, but she remembers; she not
only remembers, but she records, for her own use and pleasure, and for
the delight and profit of those who are privileged to look over her
note-books. Number Five, as I think I have said before, has not the
ambition to figure as an authoress. That she could write most agreeably
is certain. I have seen letters of hers to friends which prove that
clearly enough. Whether she would find prose or verse the most natural
mode of expression I cannot say, but I know she is passionately fond of
poetry, and I should not be surprised if, laid away among the pressed
pansies and roses of past summers, there were poems, songs, perhaps, of
her own, which she sings to herself with her fingers touching the piano;
for to that she tells her secrets in tones s