cious delights as those lavished by
such a dexterous fraud. Such refined hypocrisy is as good as virtue.--I
am not speaking to you Englishwomen, my lady," said the Minister,
suavely, addressing Lady Barimore, Lord Dudley's daughter. "I tried to
be the same lover.

"I wished to have some of my hair worked up for my new angel, and I went
to a skilled artist who at that time dwelt in the Rue Boucher. The man
had a monopoly of capillary keepsakes, and I mention his address for the
benefit of those who have not much hair; he has plenty of every kind and
every color. After I had explained my order, he showed me his work. I
then saw achievements of patience surpassing those which the story books
ascribe to fairies, or which are executed by prisoners. He brought me up
to date as to the caprices and fashions governing the use of hair. 'For
the last year,' said he, 'there has been a rage for marking linen
with hair; happily I had a fine collection of hair and skilled
needlewomen,'--on hearing this a suspicion flashed upon me; I took out
my handkerchief and said, 'So this was done in your shop, with false
hair?'--He looked at the handkerchief, and said, 'Ay! that lady was
very particular, she insisted on verifying the tint of the hair. My
wife herself marked those handkerchiefs. You have there, sir, one of the
finest pieces of work we have ever executed.' Before this last ray of
light I might have believed something--might have taken a woman's word.
I left the shop still having faith in pleasure, but where love was
concerned I was as atheistical as a mathematician.

"Two months later I was sitting by the side of the ethereal being in
her boudoir, on her sofa; I was holding one of her hands--they were very
beautiful--and we scaled the Alps of sentiment, culling their sweetest
flowers, and pulling off the daisy-petals; there is always a moment when
one pulls daisies to pieces, even if it is in a drawing-room and there
are no daisies. At the intensest moment of tenderness, and when we are
most in love, love is so well aware of its own short duration that
we are irresistibly urged to ask, 'Do you love me? Will you love
me always?' I seized the elegiac moment, so warm, so flowery, so
full-blown, to lead her to tell her most delightful lies, in the
enchanting language of love. Charlotte displayed her choicest
allurements: She could not live without me; I was to her the only man in
the world; she feared to weary me, because my presence