ted jocosely. And then, "Do you
really believe it will ruin me?" she asked in quite another tone.

"I hope it won't ruin you; but it will certainly confirm your dangerous
tendencies."

"Do you mean the love of luxury--of extravagance?"

"No, no," said Henrietta; "I mean your exposure on the moral side. I
approve of luxury; I think we ought to be as elegant as possible. Look
at the luxury of our western cities; I've seen nothing over here to
compare with it. I hope you'll never become grossly sensual; but I'm not
afraid of that. The peril for you is that you live too much in the world
of your own dreams. You're not enough in contact with reality--with
the toiling, striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, world
that surrounds you. You're too fastidious; you've too many graceful
illusions. Your newly-acquired thousands will shut you up more and
more to the society of a few selfish and heartless people who will be
interested in keeping them up."

Isabel's eyes expanded as she gazed at this lurid scene. "What are my
illusions?" she asked. "I try so hard not to have any."

"Well," said Henrietta, "you think you can lead a romantic life, that
you can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing others. You'll find
you're mistaken. Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in it--to
make any sort of success of it; and from the moment you do that it
ceases to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality! And you
can't always please yourself; you must sometimes please other people.
That, I admit, you're very ready to do; but there's another thing that's
still more important--you must often displease others. You must always
be ready for that--you must never shrink from it. That doesn't suit you
at all--you're too fond of admiration, you like to be thought well
of. You think we can escape disagreeable duties by taking romantic
views--that's your great illusion, my dear. But we can't. You must be
prepared on many occasions in life to please no one at all--not even
yourself."

Isabel shook her head sadly; she looked troubled and frightened. "This,
for you, Henrietta," she said, "must be one of those occasions!"

It was certainly true that Miss Stackpole, during her visit to Paris,
which had been professionally more remunerative than her English
sojourn, had not been living in the world of dreams. Mr. Bantling, who
had now returned to England, was her companion for the first four weeks
of her stay; and about Mr. Bantlin