hings, and he had discovered
that even in the narrowest circles such a disposition may find frequent
opportunities. Such opportunities had formed for some time--that is,
since his return from China, a year and a half before--the most active
element in this gentleman's life, which had just now a rather indolent
air. He was perfectly willing to get married. He was very fond of
books, and he had a handsome library; that is, his books were much more
numerous than Mr. Wentworth's. He was also very fond of pictures; but it
must be confessed, in the fierce light of contemporary criticism, that
his walls were adorned with several rather abortive masterpieces. He had
got his learning--and there was more of it than commonly appeared--at
Harvard College; and he took a pleasure in old associations, which made
it a part of his daily contentment to live so near this institution that
he often passed it in driving to Boston. He was extremely interested in
the Baroness Munster.

She was very frank with him; or at least she intended to be. "I am
sure you find it very strange that I should have settled down in this
out-of-the-way part of the world!" she said to him three or four weeks
after she had installed herself. "I am certain you are wondering about
my motives. They are very pure." The Baroness by this time was an old
inhabitant; the best society in Boston had called upon her, and Clifford
Wentworth had taken her several times to drive in his buggy.

Robert Acton was seated near her, playing with a fan; there were
always several fans lying about her drawing-room, with long ribbons of
different colors attached to them, and Acton was always playing with
one. "No, I don't find it at all strange," he said slowly, smiling.
"That a clever woman should turn up in Boston, or its suburbs--that does
not require so much explanation. Boston is a very nice place."

"If you wish to make me contradict you," said the Baroness, "vous vous
y prenez mal. In certain moods there is nothing I am not capable
of agreeing to. Boston is a paradise, and we are in the suburbs of
Paradise."

"Just now I am not at all in the suburbs; I am in the place itself,"
rejoined Acton, who was lounging a little in his chair. He was, however,
not always lounging; and when he was he was not quite so relaxed as he
pretended. To a certain extent, he sought refuge from shyness in
this appearance of relaxation; and like many persons in the same
circumstances he somewhat exag