ion:
Miss Kate Meadows
(of the Inner Sisterhood)]

* * * * *

II

A Dash of Jealousy and Hypocrisy
Done up in Old Gold.

* * * * *

ROBERT FAIRFIELD, LOVER.

Robert Fairfield is an average man among men--but he is something more:
He is the ideal man among women. All women have ideals, and there is
not, there can not be a more dangerous piece of heart-furniture. An
ideal is easily broken, sometimes badly damaged, always liable to
injury; and the heart of woman hath not one cabinet-maker who can, with
his touch and skill, bring back one departed charm, one lost beauty.

I know this man--and yet I do not. I love him--and yet, again, I do not.
I suspect that, woman-like, I am more fond of his charming, delicate
attentions than I am of the man himself. I sometimes fancy that he loves
me; but I am wise enough in my day and generation to be painfully aware
of the fact that just about six other women entertain the same delicious
fancy. He has told me of his love, told me in a gentle, artistic
manner--and doubtless he has told the six other females the same story;
for he need not trouble himself to vary the telling each time, because
he has no fear of detection.

He knows that he is never the topic of conversation among women. They
seldom, if ever, discuss their ideals, and all of them, myself included,
have a most evidently-conscious air whenever dear Robert's name happens
to be mentioned, no matter how trivial the mention. But I am the
least touched, and surely the more unresponsive of the entire seven,
consequently he is more devoted to me than to any of the others. He was
by my side the entire evening at Mrs. Babbington Brooks's elegant and
most fashionable ball the other night; he was my escort to the musicale
last Tuesday, and O, he did look so handsome! And he never before said
SO MANY positively tender things, and he said them in such a tired,
pathetic tone, that he almost won my heart; really, when I'm with the
man I am sure that I love him, and most devotedly. But I have perfect
control over myself and my limited supply of feeling--Henry Seyhmoor
says I am without a heart; so I only look at him full in the face when
he tells me all those tender little things, and then turn away with a
light laugh--assumed, of course--and gently but firmly remind him that
I am _not_ Kate Meadows.

Ah, here is a note