fender. Then she remembers--and ignores.

Never has any woman fascinated her as the lovely widow she is asked not
to know. What sparkling conversation! and, oh, what a dainty tea
service and piping hot cakes the footman places between them as they
talk.

The room is far prettier than Eleanor's boudoir which she has hitherto
considered such a dream of beauty. More than once Mrs. Roche suggests
going, but the widow intreats her to remain.

"It is so delightful to have you!" she declares, with exuberant
cordiality. "I have done nothing all the afternoon but lie on this
sofa and yawn over a novel. I could have written it better myself, and
that foolish librarian at Mudie's recommended it. I drive to town
nearly every afternoon--there is always something to buy or something
to see. Are you fond of London, Mrs. Roche?"

"I hardly know, I have been there so little. I lived in the country
before my marriage, and was positively buried."

"It is a mercy then that Mr. Roche found you, and dug you up."

"Yes. I like married life much better."

"Spinsterhood is a mistake," retorts Mrs. Mounteagle. "If you have the
misfortune to be thrown back upon yourself--widowed in your prime--take
my advice and marry again. We poor weak little women were not made to
take care of ourselves. We want a stronger arm to lean on--someone who
will think for us, anticipate our every wish, load us with all the good
things of this earth, and kiss us to sleep when we die!"

Eleanor listens admiringly to this superior mind.

"I shall re-marry," continues Mrs. Mounteagle, "but not immediately. I
am practically 'growing my husband.' He is still young in years,
though old in frivolity, or vice, whichever you like to call it. He
must have his fling before he settles down, or I shall only be binding
a burden on my shoulders."

Eleanor attends with deepening interest.

"I married very young," continues Mrs. Mounteagle, "and my husband was
nearly eighty. Yes," noting her visitor's surprise, "rather a
difference in our ages, wasn't there?

"Love, my dear Mrs. Roche, is a science; you can learn it with careful
study, and make it always accommodating, pleasant, and never vulgarly
effusive. Do not imagine that the first bloom of youth gleans all the
peaches, leaving only apples for after years. A clever woman seldom
grows old. She erases Time with the same nimble fingers with which she
creates her boudoir, and makes it appear part of