letter to Zulma, describing the Governor's ball. She at
once set about the task. But when the paper was spread out, she
encountered a difficulty at the very threshold. Would she write about
herself? Would she speak of Roderick? Would she repeat the salutation of
his Excellency? Would she narrate her interview with Captain Bouchette?
If she did, she would relapse at once into the train of ideas of which
it was the object of her letter to get rid. Already, two or three times,
she had detected herself gliding into them, with pen poised in her hand.

"No," she murmured with a slight laugh. "I will do nothing of the kind.
I will write like a milliner. I will give a detailed account of the
dress worn by every lady in the chateau. This may amuse Zulma, or it may
disgust her, according to her mood when she reads the letter. But no
matter. It will answer my purpose. Zulma has often scolded me for not
being selfish enough. I will be selfish for once."

With this plan well defined, the writing of the letter was an easy and a
pleasant task. As the pen flew over the paper, Pauline showed that she
enjoyed her work. At times she would smile, and her whole face would
light up. At other times she would stop and reread a passage with
evident approbation. Page after page was covered with the mystic
language of the _modiste_, in which Pauline must have been an adept--as
what young woman is not?--for she made no erasures, and inserted no
corrections.

"Now that I have come to my own costume, shall I describe it?" she asked
herself, and almost immediately added:

"It would be affectation if I did not."

She forthwith devoted a whole page to the description.

Were we not right in saying that a great change had come over Pauline?
She, who only a few weeks ago, was the simplest and most unsophisticated
of girls, now knew the meaning of that dreadful word--affectation. She
not only knew what it was, but she knew that it must be avoided, and she
took particular pains to avoid it.

A little later on she asked herself again:

"Shall I make any mention of Roddy?"

The query was apparently not so easily answered as the other. She passed
her left hand wearily over the smooth hair that shaded her temple. Her
eyes were fixed vacantly on the green baize of the table. There was just
the slightest trace of hardness, if that were possible, on her features.

At length she whispered:

"Zulma would think it strange if I did not. Besides, I know she