wo political secrets which astonished him. Of course, my
dear, I was wheedled out of them. His contempt for our weak intellects is
ineffable. But a woman must now and then ingratiate herself at the
expense of her sex. This is perfectly legitimate. Tory policy at the
table. The Opposition, as Andrew says, not represented. So to show that
we were human beings, we differed among ourselves, and it soon became
clear to me that Lady Jocelyn is the rankest of Radicals. My secret
suspicion is, that she is a person of no birth whatever, wherever her
money came from. A fine woman--yes; still to be admired, I suppose, by
some kind of men; but totally wanting in the essentially feminine
attractions.

'There was no party, so to say. I will describe the people present,
beginning with the insignifacants.

'First, Mr. Parsley, the curate of Beckley. He eats everything at table,
and agrees with everything. A most excellent orthodox young clergyman.
Except that he was nearly choked by a fish-bone, and could not quite
conceal his distress--and really Rose should have repressed her desire to
laugh till the time for our retirement--he made no sensation. I saw her
eyes watering, and she is not clever in turning it off. In that nobody
ever equalled dear Papa. I attribute the attack almost entirely to the
tightness of the white neck-cloths the young clergymen of the Established
Church wear. But, my dear, I have lived too long away from them to wish
for an instant the slightest change in anything they think, say, or do.
The mere sight of this young man was most refreshing to my spirit. He may
be the shepherd of a flock, this poor Mr. Parsley, but he is a sheep to
one young person.

'Mr. Drummond Forth. A great favourite of Lady Jocelyn's; an old friend.
He went with them to the East. Nothing improper. She is too cold for
that. He is fair, with regular features, very self-possessed, and
ready--your English notions of gentlemanly. But none of your men treat a
woman as a woman. We are either angels, or good fellows, or heaven knows
what that is bad. No exquisite delicacy, no insinuating softness, mixed
with respect, none of that hovering over the border, as Papa used to say,
none of that happy indefiniteness of manner which seems to declare "I
would love you if I might," or "I do, but I dare not tell," even when
engaged in the most trivial attentions--handing a footstool, remarking on
the soup, etc. You none of you know how to meet a woman's smi