isn't true: that's father's way of putting it. You are
beautiful!"

"My dear child!"

"Why do you say 'dear child' to me? People would think you were years
and years older than I am. Why do you always talk as if life were over?
Have you a secret sorrow?"

If Pauline, warm-hearted, loving Pauline had really thought I had, she
would have been the last person to ask such a question.

"Do I look it?" I asked.

"No-o. Only when people seem to spend the whole of their life in doing
things for other people, it makes one suspect that they are saying
to themselves, 'As we can't be happy ourselves, we can see that other
people are.'"

"What a philosopher you are, Pauline! If you go on that supposition, you
must have a terrible sorrow somewhere hidden behind that happy face of
yours."

Pauline is not meant to live in London. She thanks people in a crowd for
letting her pass. If she is pushed off the pavement, she is only sorry
that the person can be so rude as to do it. She never gets into a 'bus
or takes any vehicular advantage over a widow, and she feels choky if
she sees any one very old. "Do you know why?" she asked. "Because they
are, so near Heaven, and sometimes I think you see the reflection of it
in their faces."

"Like Cousin Penelope," I said.

We arrived at the shop where the coat and skirt were to be had, and
Pauline, having admired the horse and thanked the cabman, and the
commissionaire, who held his arm over a perfectly dry wheel, followed me
into the shop. She admired everything as she went through the different
departments, and apologized to the shop walkers for not being able to
buy everything; but she lived in the country, and although the things
were lovely, they would be no use to her--dogs on her lap most of the
day, and so on.

Everyone looked at Pauline; and old ladies, to whom she always appeals
very much, put their heads on one side, as old ladies do when they
admire anything very much, anything which reminds them of their own
youth, and smiled. Old ladies have this privilege, that when they arrive
at a certain age, they are allowed to think they were beautiful in their
youth, and to tell you so. It is a recognized thing, and one of the
recompenses of old age. We all know that every one had a beautiful
grandmother--one at least; and if a portrait of one grandmother belies
the fact, then there is the other one to fall back upon, of whom,
unfortunately, no portrait exists, and she was abs--s