for the propensity to wait all day is not in general characteristic of her race. I was enlightened probably not so much by the spirit of the utterance as by some quality of its sound. At any rate I saw she had an individual patience and a lovely frock, together with an expression that played among her pretty features as a breeze among flowers. Putting her book upon the table, she showed me a massive album, showily bound and full of autographs of price. The collection of faded notes, of still more faded "thoughts," of quotations, platitudes, signatures, represented a formidable purpose.
"Most people apply to Mr. Paraday by letter, you know," I said.
"Yes, but he doesn't answer. I've written three times."
"Very true," I reflected; "the sort of letter you mean goes straight into the fire."
"How do you know the sort I mean?" my interlocutress asked. She had blushed and smiled and in a moment she added: "I don't believe he gets many like them!"
"I'm sure they're beautiful, but he burns without reading." I didn't add that I had told him he ought to.
"Isn't he then in danger of burning things of importance?"
"He would be, if distinguished men hadn't an infallible nose for a petition."
She looked at me a moment—her face was sweet and gay. "Do you burn without reading, too?" she asked; in answer to which I assured her that if she would trust me with her repository I would see that Mr. Paraday should write his name in it.
She considered a little. "That's very well, but it wouldn't make me see him."
"Do you want very much to see him?" It seemed ungracious to catechise so charming a creature, but somehow I had never yet taken my duty to the great author so seriously.
"Enough
