nd giving long names to insects out of the
coal-hole, is what they call education nowadays."

"Frederic Harrison has said very aptly," remarks Brandolin, who is
present at this conjugal colloquy, and seeks to make a diversion on it,
"that the boast of science is to send the Indian mails across seas and
deserts in nine days, but that science cannot put in those mail-bags a
single letter equal to Voltaire's or Sevigne's, and he doubts very much
that there is one."

"It's an ill bird that fouls its own nest," says Usk, grimly: "still,
I'm very glad if those scientific prigs fall out among themselves."

"I think some people write charming letters still," says Dorothy Usk.
"Of course when one is in a hurry--and one is almost always in a
hurry----"

"Hurry is fatal, Lady Usk," says Brandolin. "It destroys style, grace,
and harmony. It is the curse of our times. The most lovely thing in life
is leisure; and we call it progress to have killed it."

"Read this letter," says his hostess, giving him one which she holds in
her hand. "There is nothing private in it, and nothing wonderful, but
there is a grace in the expressions; whilst the English, for a
foreigner, is absolutely marvellous."

"I thought there were no foreigners?" says Usk. "I thought steam had
effaced nationalities?"

His wife does not deign to reply.

Brandolin has taken the letter with hesitation. "Do you really think I
may read it?"

"When I tell you to do so," says Dolly Usk, impatiently. "Besides, there
is nothing in it, only it is pretty."

Brandolin reads; it is on very thick paper, almost imperceptibly
scented, with a princess's crown embossed on it and a gold X.

"It is very kind of you, dear Lady Usk, to have remembered a
_solitaire_ like myself in the midst of your charming children and
your many joys." ("My many annoyances, she means," interpolates
Lady Usk.) "I will be with you, as you so amiably wish, next
Tuesday or Wednesday. I am for the moment in Paris, having been
this month at Aix, not that I have any aches or pains myself, but a
friend of mine, Marie Woronszoff, has many, and tries to cure them
by warm sunshine and the cold douches which her physicians
prescribe. There are many pleasant people here; every one is
supposed to be very ill and suffering agony, but every one laughs,
flirts, plays, sits under the little tents under the trees, dances
at the Casino, and eats a fai