t loyalty, remarked, sweetly:

"Of course you have been expecting to hear that I am engaged to Mr.
Gwynne, but I only really made up my mind to-day."

"Isabel!" Both fell on her neck, Dolly with tears, and she responded
with what enthusiasm was in her, and gently deposited them into two of
the veranda chairs. With a very fair simulation of the engaged girl she
answered their rapid fire of questions, and even informed Anabel that
she would prefer silver to china when the day for presents arrived, and
promised that she should come to the rehearsal of the ceremony, since,
unfortunately, the young matron's own happy state debarred her from
officiating at the altar. But she was averse from lying, even by
implication, and was glad to see them go. After they had turned for the
last time to blow her a kiss, she went within, slammed all the doors on
the lower floor, stamped her feet, and hurled a book across the room.
Finally she swore. After that she felt better and sat down to read a
letter from Mrs. Hofer that awaited her.

* * * * *

"... I can't do anything with your Lady Victoria" [the lively young
matron ran on after a few preliminary enthusiasms]. "She went everywhere
at first, but just sat round looking like a battered statue out of the
Vatican with some concession in the way of clothes--not so much.
Literally she made no effort whatever, and, you know, _American men
won't stand that_. Perhaps that's the reason she suddenly called off and
refused to go anywhere. But what can she expect? American women may talk
too much, but at any rate they are the sort American men know like a
book, and our knights have no use for inanimate beauties a good many
years younger than my Lady Victoria.

"Now she appears to do nothing but walk--stalk rather. She goes over
these hills as if she had on seven-league boots. One would think she was
possessed by the furies; or perhaps she is afraid of getting fat.

"I am simply dying to see you again. If you don't mind--I like you
better than any one I ever met. You combine everything, and although you
make me feel as fresh as paint and as Irish as Paddy Murphy's pig, still
you always put me in a better humor with myself than ever. How do you do
it? You suggest all sorts of things that I can't define at all. Comes of
living alone and making a success of it, I suppose, getting ahead of
mere femininity and all the pettinesses of life. That's flying rather
high fo