crushed beyond recognition. My dear, civilization is a huge
cheat, and the Red Law of Savages in primeval night is worth all the
tomes of jurisprudence, from the Pandects of Justinian to the
Commentaries of Blackstone, and the wisdom of Coke and Story. Oh
halcyon days of prehistoric humanity! When instead of bowing and
smiling, and chatting gracefully with one's deadliest foe, drinking
his Amontillado and eating his truffles, people had the sublime
satisfaction of roasting his flesh and calcining his bones, for an
antediluvian _dejeuner a la fourchette_,--(only, to escape
anachronism) _sans fourchette!_ What a pity I have not the privilege
of _la belle sauvage_, far away in some cannibalistic nook of pagan
Polynesia."

She was sitting with the bedclothes drawn closely over her, and
Regina could scarcely recognize in the pale, almost haggard face
beside her the radiant, laughing woman who had seemed so dazzling a
few hours before, as she burned away in her festive robes.

"Olga, you talk like a heathen."

"Of course. To be sincere, unselfish, honest, and womanly is nowaday
inevitably heathenish. I wish I had a nose as flat as a buckwheat
cake, and lips three inches thick, with huge brass rings dangling
from them both! And for raiment, instead of Worth's miracles, a
mantle of featherwork, or a deerskin cut into fringe, and studded
with blue glass beads! Civilization is a gibing impostor, and
religion is laughing in its sacerdotal sleeves at its own
unblushing----"

"Hush, Olga! You are blasphemous. No wonder you shiver while you
talk. New York is full of noble Christians, of generous charming
people, and there must be some wickedness everywhere. Don't you know
that God will ultimately overrule all, and evangelize the world?"

"_Peut-etre!_ But I have not even the traditional grain of mustard
seed to sow; and I might answer you as Laplace once did: '_Je n'avais
pas besoin de cette hypothese_.'"

"Had you a pleasant evening at Mrs. Tarrant's?" asked Regina, anxious
to change the topic.

"Wonderfully brilliant, and quite a topaz success. I sparkled,
blazed, and people complimented profusely (criticizing _sotto voce_),
and envied openly; and when I bowed myself out at last, I felt like
Sir Peter Teazle on quitting Lady Sneerwell's: 'I leave my character
behind me.' Mamma was charmed with me, and Mr. Silas Midas looked
proud possession, as if he had in his vest pocket a bill of sale to
every pound of my white flesh,-