er. Now
that's what I like. We poor actresses have so much would-be love in the
course of our lives, that a little friendship now and then is a novelty
which other and soberer people can never appreciate. On reading Gil Blas
the other day--I am no great reader, as you may remember--I was struck
by that part in which the dear Santillane assures us that there was
never any love between him and Laura the actress. I thought it so
true to nature, so probable, that they should have formed so strong an
intimacy for each other, lived in the same house, had every opportunity
for love, yet never loved. And it was exactly because she was an
actress, and a light good-for-nothing creature that it so happened;
the very multiplicity of lovers prevented her falling in love; the very
carelessness of her life, poor girl, rendered a friend so charming to
her. It would have spoiled the friend to have made him an adorer; it
would have turned the rarity into the every-day character. Now, so it
is with me and Saville; I like his wit, he likes my good temper. We see
each other as often as if we were in love; and yet I do not believe it
even possible that he should ever kiss my hand. After all," continued
Fanny, laughing, "love is not so necessary to us women as people think.
Fine writers say, 'Oh, men have a thousand objects, women but one!'
That's nonsense, dear Percy; women have their thousand objects too. They
have not the bar, but they have the milliner's shop; they can't fight,
but they can sit by the window and embroider a work-bag; they don't rush
into politics, but they plunge their souls into love for a parrot or a
lap-dog. Don't let men flatter themselves; Providence has been just as
kind in that respect to one sex as to the other; our objects are small,
yours great; but a small object may occupy the mind just as much as the
loftiest."

"Ours great! pshaw!" said Godolphin, who was rather struck with Fanny's
remarks; "there is nothing great in those professions which man is
pleased to extol. Is selfishness great? Are the low trickery, the
organised lies of the bar, a great calling? Is the mechanical slavery
of the soldier--fighting because he is in the way of fighting, without
knowing the cause, without an object, save a dim, foolish vanity which
he calls glory, and cannot analyse--is that a great aim and vocation?
Well: the senate! look at the outcry which wise men make against the
loathsome corruption of that arena; then look at the