S MORRIS AND THE STRANGER.

I.

WHEN I first saw him, he was lost in one of the Dead Cities of
England--situated on the South Coast, and called Sandwich.

Shall I describe Sandwich? I think not. Let us own the truth;
descriptions of places, however nicely they may be written, are always
more or less dull. Being a woman, I naturally hate dullness. Perhaps
some description of Sandwich may drop out, as it were, from my report of
our conversation when we first met as strangers in the street.

He began irritably. "I've lost myself," he said.

"People who don't know the town often do that," I remarked.

He went on: "Which is my way to the Fleur de Lys Inn?"

His way was, in the first place, to retrace his steps. Then to turn to
the left. Then to go on until he found two streets meeting. Then to take
the street on the right. Then to look out for the second turning on the
left. Then to follow the turning until he smelled stables--and there
was the inn. I put it in the clearest manner, and never stumbled over a
word.

"How the devil am I to remember all that?" he said.

This was rude. We are naturally and properly indignant with any man
who is rude to us. But whether we turn our backs on him in contempt,
or whether we are merciful and give him a lesson in politeness,
depends entirely on the man. He may be a bear, but he may also have
his redeeming qualities. This man had redeeming qualities. I cannot
positively say that he was either handsome or ugly, young or old,
well or ill dressed. But I can speak with certainty to the personal
attractions which recommended him to notice. For instance, the tone of
his voice was persuasive. (Did you ever read a story, written by one of
_us_, in which we failed to dwell on our hero's voice?) Then, again,
his hair was reasonably long. (Are you acquainted with any woman who can
endure a man with a cropped head?) Moreover, he was of a good height.
(It must be a very tall woman who can feel favorably inclined toward
a short man.) Lastly, although his eyes were not more than fairly
presentable in form and color, the wretch had in some unaccountable
manner become possessed of beautiful eyelashes. They were even better
eyelashes than mine. I write quite seriously. There is one woman who is
above the common weakness of vanity--and she holds the present pen.

So I gave my lost stranger a lesson in politeness. The lesson took the
form of a trap. I asked him if he would like me to show him the