idly as if she was present in the room. I even remember (and
this is astonishing in a man) the dress that she wore. And yet I shrink
from writing about her, as if there was something wrong in it. Do me a
kindness, good friend, and let me send off all these sheets of paper,
the idle work of an idle morning, just as they are. When I write next,
I promise to be ashamed of my own capricious state of mind, and to paint
the portrait of Miss Regina at full length.

In the mean while, don't run away with the idea that she has made a
disagreeable impression upon me. Good heavens! it is far from that.
You have had the old doctor's opinion of her. Very well. Multiply this
opinion by ten--and you have mine.

[NOTE:--A strange indorsement appears on this letter, dated several
months after the period at which it was received:--_"Ah, poor Amelius!
He had better have gone back to Miss Mellicent, and put up with the
little drawback of her age. What a bright, lovable fellow he was!
Goodbye to Goldenheart!"_

These lines are not signed. They are known, however, to be in the
handwriting of Rufus Dingwell.]

CHAPTER 2

I particularly want you to come and lunch with us, dearest Cecilia, the
day after tomorrow. Don't say to yourself, "The Farnaby's house is dull,
and Regina is too slow for me," and don't think about the long drive for
the horses, from your place to London. This letter has an interest of
its own, my dear--I have got something new for you. What do you think
of a young man, who is clever and handsome and agreeable--and, wonder
of wonders, quite unlike any other young Englishman you ever saw in your
life? You are to meet him at luncheon; and you are to get used to his
strange name beforehand. For which purpose I enclose his card.

He made his first appearance at our house, at dinner yesterday evening.

When he was presented to me at the tea-table, he was not to be put
off with a bow--he insisted on shaking hands. "Where I have been," he
explained, "we help a first introduction with a little cordiality." He
looked into his tea-cup, after he said that, with the air of a man who
could say something more, if he had a little encouragement. Of course,
I encouraged him. "I suppose shaking hands is much the same form in
America that bowing is in England?" I said, as suggestively as I could.

He looked up directly, and shook his head. "We have too many forms in
this country," he said. "The virtue of hospitality, for instance