e did not seem inclined to answer.

'Perhaps it is your understanding of them that's at fault,' added
Sidwell, gently.

'Not in one case, at all events,' he exclaimed. 'Supposes you were
asked to define Miss Moorhouse's religious opinions, how would you do
it?'

'I am not well enough acquainted with them.'

'Do you imagine for a moment that she has any more faith in the
supernatural than I have?'

'I think there is a great difference between her position and yours.'

'Because she is hypocritical!' cried Buckland, angrily. 'She deceives
you. She hasn't the courage to be honest.'

Sidwell wore a pained expression.

'You judge her,' she replied, 'far too coarsely. No one is called upon
to make an elaborate declaration of faith as often as such subjects are
spoken of. Sylvia thinks so differently from you about almost
everything that, when she happens to agree with you, you are misled and
misinterpret her whole position.'

'I understand her perfectly,' Buckland went on, in the same irritated
voice. 'There are plenty of women like her--with brains enough, but
utter and contemptible cowards. Cowards even to themselves, perhaps.
What can you expect, when society is based on rotten shams?'

For several minutes he pursued this vein of invective, then took an
abrupt leave. Sidwell had a piece of grave counsel ready to offer him,
but he was clearly in no mood to listen, so she postponed it.

A day or two after this, she received a letter from Sylvia. Miss
Moorhouse was anything but a good correspondent; she often confessed
her inability to compose anything but the briefest and driest statement
of facts. With no little surprise, therefore, Sidwell found that the
envelope contained two sheets all but covered with her friend's cramped
handwriting. The letter began with apology for long delay in
acknowledging two communications.

'But you know well enough my dilatory disposition. I have written to
you mentally at least once a day, and I hope you have mentally received
the results--that is to say, have assured yourself of my goodwill to
you, and I had nothing else to send.'

At this point Sylvia had carefully obliterated two lines, blackening
the page into unsightliness. In vain Sidwell pored over the effaced
passage, led to do so by a fancy that she could discern a capital P,
which looked like the first letter of a name. The writer continued:

'Don't trouble yourself so much about insoluble questions. Try to be
more