tance off, where he disappeared with his prey into his nest.

'"Ha!" said Wallace, who is a bird-lover, "a truce to Balzac, and let us
watch those nut-hatches! Miss Bretherton's quite right to prefer them to
French novels."

'"French novels!" she said, withdrawing her eyes from the branch above
her, and frowning a little at Wallace as she spoke. "Please don't expect
me to talk about them--I know nothing about them--I have never wished
to."

'Her voice had a tone almost of hauteur in it. I have noticed it before.
It is the tone of the famous actress accustomed to believe in herself and
her own opinion. I connected it, too, with all one hears of her
determination to look upon herself as charged with a mission for the
reform of stage morals. French novels and French actresses! apparently
she regards them all as so many unknown horrors, standing in the way of
the purification of dramatic art by a beautiful young person with a high
standard of duty. It is very odd! Evidently she is the Scotch
Presbyterian's daughter still, for all her profession, and her success,
and her easy ways with the Sabbath! Her remark produced a good deal of
unregenerate irritation in me. If she were a first-rate artist to begin
with, I was inclined to reflect, this moral enthusiasm would touch and
charm one a good deal more; as it is, considering her position, it is
rather putting the cart before the horse. But, of course, one can
understand that it is just these traits in her that help her to make the
impression she does on London society and the orthodox public in general.

'Wallace and I went off after the nut-hatches, enjoying a private laugh
by the way over Mrs. Stuart's little look of amazement and discomfort as
Miss Bretherton delivered herself. When we came back we found Forbes
sketching her--she sitting rather flushed and silent under the tree, and
he drawing away and working himself at every stroke into a greater and
greater enthusiasm. And certainly she was as beautiful as a dream,
sitting against that tree, with the brown heather about her and the young
oak-leaves overhead. But I returned in an antagonistic frame of mind, a
little out of patience with her and her beauty, and wondering why Nature
always blunders somewhere!

'However, on the way home she had another and a pleasanter surprise for
me. A carriage was waiting for us on the main road, and we strolled
towards it through the gorse and the trees and the rich level evening
lig