s."

"In what does she not suit you, William? She is personally agreeable, is
she not?"

"Very; her hair and complexion are just what I admire; and her turn of
form, though quite Belgian, is full of grace."

"Bravo! and her face? her features? How do you like them?"

"A little harsh, especially her mouth."

"Ah, yes! her mouth," said M. Pelet, and he chuckled inwardly. "There is
character about her mouth--firmness--but she has a very pleasant smile;
don't you think so?"

"Rather crafty."

"True, but that expression of craft is owing to her eyebrows; have you
remarked her eyebrows?"

I answered that I had not.

"You have not seen her looking down then?" said he.

"No."

"It is a treat, notwithstanding. Observe her when she has some knitting,
or some other woman's work in hand, and sits the image of peace, calmly
intent on her needles and her silk, some discussion meantime going on
around her, in the course of which peculiarities of character are being
developed, or important interests canvassed; she takes no part in it;
her humble, feminine mind is wholly with her knitting; none of her
features move; she neither presumes to smile approval, nor frown
disapprobation; her little hands assiduously ply their unpretending
task; if she can only get this purse finished, or this bonnet-grec
completed, it is enough for her. If gentlemen approach her chair, a
deeper quiescence, a meeker modesty settles on her features, and clothes
her general mien; observe then her eyebrows, et dites-moi s'il n'y a pas
du chat dans l'un et du renard dans l'autre."

"I will take careful notice the first opportunity," said I.

"And then," continued M. Pelet, "the eyelid will flicker, the
light-coloured lashes be lifted a second, and a blue eye, glancing out
from under the screen, will take its brief, sly, searching survey, and
retreat again."

I smiled, and so did Pelet, and after a few minutes' silence, I asked:

"Will she ever marry, do you think?"

"Marry! Will birds pair? Of course it is both her intention and
resolution to marry when she finds a suitable match, and no one is
better aware than herself of the sort of impression she is capable
of producing; no one likes better to captivate in a quiet way. I am
mistaken if she will not yet leave the print of her stealing steps on
thy heart, Crimsworth."

"Of her steps? Confound it, no! My heart is not a plank to be walked
on."

"But the soft touch of a patte de velours will