the good nature and the purse of a man to whom you feel absolute indifference. You love M. Isidore far more than you think, or will avow."
"No. I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love a thousand times more than he. I often wonder why I feel so very cold to Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire him; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is...."
And she seemed to make an effort, to reflect. In this I encouraged her. "Yes!" I said, "try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind. To me, it seems in a great mess—chaotic as a rag-bag."
"It is something in this fashion," she cried out ere long: "the man is too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I find it convenient to be. He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor intend to have. Now, one can't help, in his presence, rather trying to justify his good opinion; and it does so tire one to be goody, and to talk sense,—for he really thinks I am sensible. I am far more at my ease with you, old lady—you, you dear crosspatch—who take me at my lowest, and know me to be coquettish,
