as I do.' He looked as if he by no means believed
this; but, indeed, he looks as if he believed nothing at all. He is
quite upset and demoralized. He stayed half an hour and paid me his
visit--trying hard to 'please' me again! Poor man, he is in a charming
state to please the fair sex! But if he does n't please me, he interests
me more and more; I make bold to say that to you. You would have said
it would be very awkward; but, strangely enough, I found it very easy. I
suppose it is because I am so interested. Very likely it was awkward for
him, poor fellow, for I can certify that he was not a whit happier at
the end of his half-hour, in spite of the privilege he had enjoyed. He
said nothing more about you, and we talked of Paris and New York,
of Baden and Rome. Imagine the situation! I shall make no resistance
whatever to it; I shall simply let him perceive that conversing with me
on these topics does not make him feel a bit more comfortable, and that
he must look elsewhere for a remedy. I said not a word about Blanche."

She spoke of Blanche, however, the next time. "He came again this
afternoon," she said in her second letter, "and he wore exactly the same
face as yesterday--namely, a very unhappy one. If I were not entirely
too wise to believe his account of himself, I might suppose that he was
unhappy because Blanche shows symptoms of not taking flight. She has
been with us a great deal--she has no idea what is going on--and I can't
honestly say that she chatters any less than usual. But she is greatly
interested in certain shops that she is buying out, and especially in
her visits to her tailor. Mamma has proposed to her--in view of your
absence--to come and stay with us, and she does n't seem afraid of the
idea. I told her husband to-day that we had asked her, and that we
hoped he had no objection. 'None whatever; but she won't come.' 'On
the contrary, she says she will.' 'She will pretend to, up to the last
minute; and then she will find a pretext for backing out.' 'Decidedly,
you think very ill of her,' I said. 'She hates me,' he answered, looking
at me strangely. 'You say that of every one,' I said. 'Yesterday you
said it of Bernard.' 'Ah, for him there would be more reason!' he
exclaimed. 'I won't attempt to answer for Bernard,' I went on, 'but
I will answer for Blanche. Your idea of her hating you is a miserable
delusion. She cares for you more than for any one in the world. You only
misunderstand each other,