to the other sex; but perhaps he finds it
necessary to the study of human nature. A man in his profession must
have to be as many-sided as a poet.

I conclude that she did not read the magazines, for she says so much
about their conversation that it is evident there was little
opportunity, and besides, they lunched together in the diner, and that
must have taken up a lot of time. She admits that she teased him, and
that he seemed to like it, but she does not say what about. He said
the other day that she was dangerous. I wonder if he really thought
so, and is on his guard against the danger, for Rose has always been
somewhat of a flirt, and it would hurt a man like him deeply if he
really cared and found she was only playing with him. He is the sort
that---- But I said I would not refer to it, and here I am doing so.

He told her he hoped to see something of her occasionally, and she was
unconventional enough to hope the same. They are sure to make
opportunities easily enough when they are both in London. I feel glad
for Rose, for he is the kind of man who will steady her a bit, but I
hope she---- Oh, bother it!

Madam Rusty received my kind messages, it appears, with apparent
indifference, so Rose waxed eloquent over the Sunday dinner table, and
painted a picture of my surroundings in the most brilliant colours from
the palette of her imagination. She stimulated the curiosity of the
boarders, who showed a great interest in me and my adventures, and were
eager to know what kind of fare was provided in the wilderness, and
what was the character of the heathen in whose midst I dwelt; to all of
which she replied in a strain of subdued enthusiasm which she assured
me carried conviction. I was regarded, she informed them, with the
same respect as was naturally accorded to the squire of the place, with
whom I was on terms of extreme intimacy. Good air and really good food
(Rose emphasised this for madam's benefit) had brought to my cheeks the
glow of health; and my abilities had secured for me a clientele which
would make a West End photographer think sad thoughts. This, goodness
knows, was true enough.

She went into ecstasies over Mother Hubbard's cooking, and caused the
company to believe that the fatted calf, and all other makes of fatted
beasts and birds of the primest and tenderest quality, appeared upon my
table regularly during her visit. When I remember the "pot-luck" we
had so often laughed over at