photograph; having got
to the shop first by a short cut. They seemed to think I had taken a
liberty whom I joined them. "We are here," they were careful to explain,
"to get a lesson in the ideal of beauty and grace." There was quite
a little crowd of townsfolk collected before the window. Some of them
giggled; and some of them wondered whether it was taken from the life.
For my own part, gratitude to Venus obliges me to own that she effected
a great improvement in the state of my mind. She encouraged me. If
that stumpy little creature--with no waist, and oh, such uncertain
legs!--represented the ideal of beauty and grace, I had reason indeed to
be satisfied with my own figure, and to think it quite possible that my
sweetheart's favorable opinion of me was not ill-bestowed.

I was at the bedroom window when the time approached for Philip's
arrival. Quite at the far end of the road, I discovered him. He was on
foot; he walked like a king. Not that I ever saw a king, but I have my
ideal. Ah, what a smile he gave me, when I made him look up by waving
my handkerchief out of the window! "Ask for papa," I whispered as he
ascended the house-steps.

The next thing to do was to wait, as patiently as I could, to be sent
for downstairs. Maria came to me in a state of excitement. "Oh, miss,
what a handsome young gentleman, and how beautifully dressed! Is he--?"
Instead of finishing what she had to say, she looked at me with a sly
smile. I looked at her with a sly smile. We were certainly a couple of
fools. But, dear me, how happy sometimes a fool can be!

My enjoyment of that delightful time was checked when I went into the
drawing-room.

I had expected to see papa's face made beautiful by his winning smile.
He was not only serious; he actually seemed to be ill at ease when he
looked at me. At the same time, I saw nothing to make me conclude that
Philip had produced an unfavorable impression. The truth is, we were all
three on our best behavior, and we showed it. Philip had brought with
him a letter from Mrs. Staveley, introducing him to papa. We spoke of
the Staveleys, of the weather, of the Cathedral--and then there seemed
to be nothing more left to talk about.

In the silence that followed--what a dreadful thing silence is!--papa
was sent for to see somebody who had called on business. He made his
excuses in the sweetest manner, but still seriously. When he and Philip
had shaken hands, would he leave us together? No; he wait