CHAPTER VIII.

Elton Manor.

"Love," she said, "is just a game That does for summer weather!" "Love," he answered, "is a flame Putting lesser lights to shame: Making wealth and rank and fame Weigh lighter than a feather!" "Sure," she cried, "we mean the same; Love is but a fancy name For you and me together."

When Paul Seaton and Dick Esdaile were respectively twenty-six and thirteen, the former was offered the post of editor to the new magazine, _The Pendulum_, and the latter was considered fit to enter Eton. So Paul concluded his pleasant life at Esdaile Court and went to live in London, to prepare himself the more fully for that great book he meant to write some day. By that time his friendship with Miss Carnaby was an established factor in his existence. Paul called it friendship, because he was as yet too poor to call it by any other name; but the other name was ready, as soon as Paul had secured a sufficient status and income to allow him to rechristen the sentiment. He was very glad to take up his abode in London. But, there again, London was only a euphemism for Isabel. Living in London meant seeing Isabel frequently; therefore London was the most desirable place of residence under the sun.

Lady Farley was always "at home" on Thursday afternoons, and consequently Thursday became Paul's Sabbath. He called as often as he dared; and when he felt it but decent to allow a Thursday to elapse without his dropping in at Prince's Gate, he sympathized with the Irish peasant who said: "His Riverence is going to Dublin Fair, so there will be no Sunday this week".

And Isabel also measured time by Thursday afternoons, and felt such seasons a blank indeed if they did not bring Paul. She waited till he arrived before she ordered up the second brew of tea, and she took care to pour his cup out first; she talked to him for as much time as she could spare from other visitors; and listened to him all the time that she was conversing with them, and he was talking to somebody else; she introduced him only to clever men and to plain women; and, in short, she generally behaved herself as all right-minded and right-mannered young women do under similar circumstances. She derived almost as much happiness as Paul did from their friendship; but she pretended that she did not know that friendship was only a _nom de plume_; all the same, she could have found the right name in the dictionary with her eyes shut.

Tickets of admission into Eden are variously worded; and Paul Seaton received one--after he had been for a year or so editor of _The Pendulum_--couched in the following terms:--

"DEAR MR. SEATON,

"Sir Benjamin, Isabel and I leave town on the 10th, and we shall be so pleased to see you if you will run down to Farley Castle on the following Saturday, and spend the Sunday with us.

"Yours very truly, "CAROLINE FARLEY."

When Paul arrived at Farley Castle on that blissful and broiling Saturday afternoon, he found a distinguished company drinking tea upon the lawn. The Esdailes were there, with Violet; and there was a Peer and a Cabinet Minister; also Lord Robert Thistletown, a younger son of the Marquis of Wallingford; likewise Miss Ethel Gordon, a celebrated beauty; and one or two others, that merely served as padding.

Lady Farley duly presented Paul to her other guests, and he sat down to be refreshed in (and by) their company.

"That is a capital article of yours on art and education in the current number of _The Pendulum_, Seaton," remarked Sir Benjamin, after a due discussion of the heat of the weather and the lateness of Saturday trains.

"It is very kind of you to say so," replied Paul, "but I felt it was far too large a subject to be treated in so small a space, and my limits handicapped me a good deal."

"I also read it with much interest," said Lord Wrexham, "though I fear I did not agree with it all. It appears to me that we require education to make us understand art, rather than that art is in itself an education."

Paul shook his head. "Of course education helps us with technique; but I think that art itself is independent of education. The artist, like the poet, is born, not made."

"Then do you mean to say," asked Lord Wrexham, "that the artist of to-day is none the better for the art produced in the centuries that lie behind him?"

"He is a richer man," replied Paul, "but not, I think, a better artist. There is no heritage in art, as there is in science. The artist is complete in himself, without ancestors or successors."

"Like Melchizedek," suggested Sir Benjamin.

"Exactly," said Paul, "but the man of science, on the contrary, builds on foundations which his predecessors have laid, and reaps what they have sown."

"I think you are about right," remarked Mr. Kesterton, the Cabinet Minister, "an ordinary plumber now knows more than Galileo did, and a chemist's assistant more than Jenner: but our innumerable host of minor poets have not yet out-Shakespeared Shakespeare, nor do our modern impressionists put Raphael and Michael Angelo to shame."

"Still some of the modern pictures are very pretty, don't you think?" chimed in Lady Esdaile, "and so much more interesting than the old ones. Do you know, I get rather tired of nothing but Madonnas and Holy Families? Of course they are very nice in their way, and devout and religious and all that; but if I had to choose a picture, I'd much rather have a hunting scene or a railway station or a Scotch moor."

Mr. Kesterton did not answer. Some men, he felt, were appointed to govern kingdoms, and some to talk to silly women; but no man could reasonably be expected to do both.

"My lady's tastes are modern," said Sir Richard, smiling.

"Yes, they are," agreed Sir Richard's wife. "I'd rather read a new novel than all Shakespeare's things put together; and I enjoy Gilbert and Sullivan far more than Handel and Mozart."

"So do I, Lady Esdaile," chimed in Lord Robert Thistletown. "I am 'the heir of all the ages in the foremost files of time,' and I cannot waste my time in looking back, like Lot's wife."

"But if, as you say, the artist is born not made, how can art be an education?" inquired Lord Wrexham.

"Art is really the interpretation of nature," replied Paul; "therefore the artist has the power to reveal to others what he alone has the eyes to discover for himself. He will not teach other men to be artists; he will only show them what he has seen. Do I make myself clear, Lord Wrexham? I know what I mean, but I am afraid I put it rather badly."

"Not at all; I quite grasp your meaning," said his lordship graciously, "though I am not yet sure that I concur with it."

"If art is an integral part of a good education, as Mr. Seaton asserts," remarked Mr. Kesterton, "we shall have to spend more money on public picture-galleries; and how the Exchequer of the future will stand it, goodness only knows. I am thankful to think that by that time I shall be where budgets cease from troubling."

"I am going to write an article for _The Pendulum_ on love as education--a sort of opposition shop to Mr. Seaton's school of art," said Isabel Carnaby. "There is really nothing so admirable from an educational point of view as the process known as 'falling in love'; and I consider that a Government that makes education compulsory, ought to insist upon every one's falling in love at least once before he or she is five-and-twenty. I should call it 'passing the seventh standard,' seven being the perfect number, you know."

"A capital idea, my dear young lady!" said Mr. Kesterton graciously, for Isabel always amused him. "Should you erect special schools for the purpose, may I ask?"

"Yes, gorgeous red and white palaces, like the board-schools; and they would be called 'Highest Grade Schools,' and I should superintend them myself."

"And no one better qualified! Is it impertinent to ask if you would combine the office of object with that of instructress?"

"Not necessarily. Of course it is better for men to fall in love with me than with any one else--teaches them more, I mean, and bores them less. But I shouldn't make it a _sine quâ non_. I should advise it, but not insist upon it. If they preferred to do so, the pupils might fall in love with somebody else; but it would be like learning literary style from _The Polite Letter Writer_, instead of from the classics."

"I should undertake the girls' department," cried Lord Robert, "it is more than a liberal education to a woman to fall in love with me--it includes all the extras, and a year's finishing abroad into the bargain."

Isabel shook her head. "I'm not so sure about that."

"It is so. When a girl falls in love with me, she realizes at once that brains and beauty and wealth are mere worthless and vulgar attributes; but that a heart of gold, beating under a pocket of very small silver, is the only thing really worthy of a woman's regard. This has a most elevating and refining effect on their dear little characters, bless 'em! It has indeed! Therefore I shall put aside my constitutional shyness, and undertake the girls' department of the 'Highest Grade School'."

"You have no constitutional shyness to put aside, Lord Bobby," said Lady Farley; "so your sacrifice to the common weal is not so stupendous after all."

"How you misjudge me!" sighed Lord Robert. "It is ever my fate to be misjudged by my dearest and best! Shyness is my bane, my besetment; and it is only my exquisite unselfishness which enables me to overcome it as I do, in order to make other people happy by the uninterrupted flow of my improving conversation. And this is all the thanks I get."

"I suppose everybody feels shy sometimes," said Miss Carnaby.

"Not everybody," argued Lord Robert, "take my word for it, you never do."

"Yes I do, under certain circumstances."

"When? do tell us," besought Violet Esdaile.

Isabel thought for a moment. "I am shy of people who make me feel things," she replied slowly.

"Do you mean you feel shy of a man if you think he is going to make you an offer, or to pull one of your teeth out?" inquired Lord Robert with friendly interest.

"Roughly speaking, yes."

"That's a pity! Because in either case it is sport to them, you see; so it is unfortunate if it is death to you."

Isabel smiled. "My dear Lord Bobby, how absurd you are! Now perhaps you will respond to my confidence, and tell us when you feel shy."

Bobby thought for a moment. "When my boots creak," he answered.

Everybody laughed. "It is no laughing matter, I can assure you," he continued. "I've got a pair now that make me feel as timid as an unfledged school-girl every time I put them on. I wore them to go to church only last Sunday; and they sang such a processional hymn to themselves all the way up the aisle, that by the time I reached our pew I was half dead with shame, and 'the beauty born of murmuring sound' had 'passed into my face'; but it wasn't the type of beauty that was becoming to me--it was too anxious and careworn for my _retroussé_ style."

"Weren't your people awfully ashamed of you?" asked Isabel.

"There were none of them there except my mother; and she sat at the far end of the pew, and tried to look as if I were only a collateral."

"I wonder if your mother ever feels shy?" remarked Violet.

"Dreadfully, of her own maid. She has had her for a long time; and I believe that when a maid has had a right of way across your head for over seven years, she can do your hair in what style she likes and you may not interfere. That, I am told, is the law with regard to rights of way."

"Do you ever feel shy?" inquired Isabel of Mr. Kesterton.

"Only when I'm introduced to babies, and their mothers look as if they expected me to kiss them--to kiss the babies, I mean--not the mothers; that would not make me feel nearly so shy. I am always being godfather to the terrible little things, and giving them spoons; but I confine myself to the silver variety."

"Are you many godfathers?"

"This is what I am, Miss Carnaby. I am one husband, three fathers, nine grandfathers and seventeen godfathers--thirty gentlemen in one, so ten times better than Cerberus. And what it costs me in presents is something fabulous."

Isabel turned to Lord Wrexham. "When are you shy?"

"Always. I invariably feel that I am boring people, and this makes me bore them all the more."

"And you, Uncle Benjamin?"

"When I go out shooting, my dear. I am a bad shot at best; and, knowing this, I am consequently generally at my worst."

"My governor is a first-rate shot," announced Lord Robert proudly. "I know no young man who is equal to him; but I'm a poor hand at the job myself. Now-a-days fathers shoot better than their sons, as a rule, I think; a proof of the decadence of the race. (That's a good sentence! I shall wait till you have all forgotten it, and then make use of it again.) Does your father shoot much?" he inquired, turning to Paul.

Paul smiled. "My father is a Methodist minister," he said, "so he knows nothing about sport."

"Dear me, how queer!" exclaimed Ethel Gordon, looking at Paul with as much curiosity as if he had said his father was a giraffe; but Lord Robert came to the rescue. "I've got an uncle in that line of business," he remarked airily, "at least he is a bishop; and he is the best old chap I ever met in my life--a regular saint, don't you know? I daresay your governor is the same."

"He is a good man," answered Paul simply.

"So is my Uncle Ambrose; and there is nothing like it after all. It takes time, you bet, to be as good as that; but it pays in the long run. I wish you knew my uncle; you'd like him. He gives away everything he has to charity, and he really cares for nothing in the world but how to make other folks better and happier. He is the Bishop of Ditchester."

"I know Lord Ambrose Thistletown by name, of course, well," said Paul.

"It is a beastly see," continued Bobby, "all smoke and manufactures and working men, and things of that kind. They have offered him better ones, but he will stay on there because he thinks he can do more good among poor people than among rich ones; and I guess he is about right."

"That is very noble of him!"

"Oh! he is like that all through; a regular good sort, out and out; but his wife is simply awful. She is always worrying him to go to a place where there would be a bigger palace, and more swagger friends for her; and she is for ever preaching to the poor old man about the claims of birth, and the duties of rank, and rot of that sort."

"Poor Lord Ambrose!" said Isabel sympathetically.

"She is simply sickening," continued Bobby, "when she gets on her high horse, and rates the bishop for not properly fulfilling the duties of his position and the claims of his station; she feels those claims so strongly herself, she says, that she should consider it a sin to disregard them. She was the daughter of an archdeacon, you know," and Bobby chuckled to himself.

"She can't bear me," said Lady Esdaile, "she thinks I am worldly because I wear a fringe, and dance round-dances. And so she gives me a cheap and religious little book every time she meets me."

Lord Bobby clapped his hands with delight. "I know them," he cried. "The _Mammon Worshippers_ and _Outlandish Women_ are two of her 'choicest gifts in store'; but she has plenty of others for those who need them. What irritates me in the woman is that she is such a toady; she dismisses her servants without characters if she finds they are not strict teetotalers; and yet once, when that horrid Lord Watertight was regularly drunk at a party, she said it was his animal spirits only that carried him away, and that he was a most lovable young man. Spirits carried him away, I confess, but they were vegetable and not animal ones."

"That was just like her," said Lady Esdaile.

"She not only believes that the king can do no wrong, but that the peerage can do no wrong, either--which is carrying a good principle to an untenable extreme," continued Lord Bobby. "But did you ever hear the poem that Lady Eleanor Gregory wrote about her?"

"No; was it very smart?" asked Lady Farley. "Eleanor's verses generally are."

"Awfully good. I wish I could repeat it to you, but I can only remember one verse. This is it:--

"A bishop must not revel in strong drink; Though he may take a little, I have heard, Just for the sake of--no, I do not think It maidenly to use the Pauline word: I only say he'll take some, should there cease To be beneath his apron perfect peace."

Everybody was amused and Mr. Kesterton shouted with laughter. "Capital," he cried, "capital! Lady Eleanor is a clever little girl. But it is a pity she does not confine herself to penning humorous verses, instead of indulging in the love-sick ditties we frequently read in the magazines above her signature."

"Still she can write good poetry," remarked Paul.

"That may be; but I don't like young ladies to wear the willow in print in that fashion. I may be old-fashioned, but that is my opinion."

"And mine too," agreed Lord Wrexham.

"I expect her willow is an artificial flower," said Isabel, "or she would not wave it before the public eye. The people who have really felt things don't write about them."

"Then don't you think the faithless swain of her poems is a real person?" wondered Ethel Gordon.

"I once asked her if he was," answered Lord Robert. "Everybody was asking the question behind her back, I told her, and I thought it a more effective plan to ask it before her face."

"And what did she say? Was she angry with you?" inquired Miss Gordon.

"Not she; she merely laughed, and said she had drawn a beau at a venture, and it was therefore only a fancy portrait."

"Very smart again," murmured Mr. Kesterton approvingly. "Girls who can make jokes like that ought not to waste their time reeling out poetry as easily as if they were ravelling an old stocking. They should leave that to the dull, sentimental women, who wear their hearts on their sleeves and their curls down their backs."

"Was Lady Ambrose very furious at the poem?" asked Lady Esdaile. "It was just the sort of thing to make her mad if any one but a ladyship had written it."

"I don't think she ever saw it," replied Bobby, "but the bishop did, and enjoyed it immensely. He loves a joke, does the dear old bishop, and loves it all the more if his wife is out of it. I remember that she was described therein as 'a godly Venus, rising from the sea'; and my father has called Lady A. 'the godly Venus' ever since."

Mr. Kesterton chuckled appreciatively.

"What I can't stand is humbug," continued Lord Robert, "and when I see that woman ready to sell what she is pleased to call her soul for money and position and all that, and then hear her jawing against Mammon and worldliness and things of that sort, it makes me feel positively sick."

Paul smiled, and could not help thinking of Mrs. Martin. He remembered a tale he had once heard of some Staffordshire colliers who went to see the sights of London, and their surprise reached its height when one exclaimed: "I say, Bill, they've got the same old moon here as we've got at Tipton!" The sights of London are still very wonderful and well worth seeing; but they've got the same old human nature there as they've got at Tipton, and everywhere else under the sun.

That "week-end" was a season of perfect bliss to Paul; partly because he was in the company of some of the best-mannered and most brilliant people in England but principally because Isabel Carnaby was nice to him. He carried her prayer-book to church for her on Sunday morning, and the scent of Russia-leather sent a thrill through him all his life afterwards; while the sound of her voice in the hymns made those particular psalms stand out from the rest of _Hymns Ancient and Modern_ for ever in Paul Seaton's ears.

On their way back from church, Isabel asked him if he had begun to write his book.

"Not yet," answered he, "you know you told me not to be in a hurry, and I've taken your advice. I feel I am decidedly mellower than I was, but I'm not yet ripe."

"Shall you write under your own name?"

"No. If you write under your own name you cannot help being handicapped, to some extent, by your circumstances and surroundings. You know what your friends will expect of you, and you feel bound in some measure to fulfil their expectations. But if you write under a _nom de plume_ you are quite free."

"I see what you mean, and I think I agree with you," said Isabel.

"For instance, I should say lots of things that my father would not agree with, my opinions on most matters being different from his, though my admiration and respect for his character are greater than they ever were. He has found truth and righteousness, and I hope to find them some day; but I shall travel by different roads and use different methods from those by which he has been led. Mind you, I do not say, or even think, that mine are better than his, but they are different, owing to the difference in our characters and our generations."

"I perfectly understand," said Isabel sympathetically.

"Then, do you see? if I wrote as his son, he would have to bear in a measure the onus of my work, and that would not be fair to him."

"You are quite right. But do not wait too long before you begin your book; do not wait till you are _blasé_ and cynical and have lost all your illusions."

"Do you like people to keep their illusions?" Paul asked.

"Yes, oh! yes. I always pray that I may never outlive my illusions or my front teeth, though all else may fail me."

Paul laughed. Then he said more seriously: "It seems to me that the more you see of the world and men and things, and the better you understand them, the less cynical you ought to be. I believe that _tout comprendre est tout pardonner_."

"I am so glad to hear you say that! It is what I have always thought."

"It disgusts me," continued Paul, "that when people tell you to look at anything as a man of the world, they mean you are to take the most disagreeable view possible."

"I know."

"When you begin life, you think that everything is rose-colour; this is crude. You find that some things are not rose-colour, and then you think that everything is blue-mouldy; this also is crude. But when you have really seen life and the world, you know that some things are rose-colour and some are blue-mouldy, and that the majority are neither one nor the other. To me the blue-mouldy stage is only one degree less raw and crude than the rose-colour one, and much more objectionable."

"How well you put things!" exclaimed Isabel. "You seem to think all the thoughts which I have thought, but have struggled in vain to express; but you are able also to express them. And one grand thing about you is that you always say all that you think."

Paul smiled. "Not quite all."

"Do you mean that there are Bluebeard's chambers in your heart that even I have not looked into."

"Yes."

"But I want to look in," persisted Isabel.

"But you can't--yet."

"Can I ever?"

"I don't know. It depends on whether you are willing to wait or not. But, as you said to me, you mustn't be in a hurry," replied Paul.

"I know most of your heart and mind; but this, I suppose, is an additional exhibition, like the chamber of horrors at Madame Tussaud's; and one has to pay six-pence extra to see it."

"Only it isn't a chamber of horrors, and sixpence isn't enough."

"But I've got more than sixpence."

"I know you have, Miss Carnaby, but I haven't; and it is I who have to pay this entrance-fee. That is why I am saving up my money, and editing magazines, and writing stupid stories."

"Do you think I should be interested if I ever did see it?" asked Isabel.

"I don't know."

"But what do you think?"

"You might, or you might not," replied Paul.

"Anyhow you might tell me what it is like. Do tell me what it is like, dear Mr. Seaton."

Paul thought for a moment. "It is rather like an ordinary looking-glass," he said, "in fact you couldn't tell the difference."

Isabel laughed. "How silly you are!"

"In some things; but not in this."

"There is the gong!" exclaimed Isabel. "We are late."

At lunch that day Lord Wrexham took upon himself to expound to Paul a new system of surface-drainage, whereof he thought most highly; and so Paul did not again get word with Isabel, till they two started for a walk across the park in the afternoon.

"Lord Wrexham was terribly agrarian to-day, wasn't he?" said Isabel. "He is awfully boring when he begins to explain things."

"But he is a nice man," answered Paul; "and he would be really interesting to listen to, if a fellow wasn't wanting to talk to you all the time instead."

"Oh! I find him dreadfully tiresome when he becomes agricultural and explanatory."

"You really ought not to abuse him, for he admires you most tremendously."

Isabel shrugged her shoulders. "I know he does; men of that age always do. I shouldn't be surprised if you admired me when you are as old as Lord Wrexham."

"I shouldn't, either," said Paul.

"I think I should rather like it if you did."

"Should you? then I'll try. I always try to do what you want, you know, however difficult it may be."

Isabel laughed. "I am fond of admiration," she said.

"So I should have supposed."

"But I'm not one of those tiresome, exacting women, who are always longing to be first with everybody. I can't stand the sort of women who suffer from what they call 'heart-hunger'. Can you?"

"They are pretty bad," agreed Paul.

"But I'm not like that, am I?"

"No; you like people to admire you, and you take a good deal of trouble to ensure this result: but you are not in the least _exigeante_. I don't think you'd expect to be first with a person unless that person was first with you; and then, of course, you'd have a right to expect it."

"That is quite true; how well you understand me! I don't want men to go in jeopardy of their lives by fetching water for me from the wells of Bethlehem; but I do want them to be ready and willing to take me down to supper at balls, and to bring me refreshments at evening parties."

Paul smiled. "You appear to be a wonderfully reasonable woman."

"I'm so glad you think that! I always consider my 'sweet reasonableness' one of my strong points."

"But it is only because you don't really care," continued Paul, "the minute you begin to care, you'll be as unreasonable as the rest of them."

Isabel frowned. "How horrid you are!"

"Am I? I'm sorry for that. But it grieves my righteous soul to see you hugging your negligences and ignorances, and mistaking them for virtues."

"I wish you were not so nasty!" sighed Isabel; "when you are as nasty as this, it makes a walk with you a toil instead of a pleasure."

"Well, don't make it a danger instead of a toil; which you will do if you walk on that damp grass."

"I shall walk on the damp grass as long as you are disagreeable."

"I wish you wouldn't," and Paul's face grew quite anxious. "You'll be certain to catch cold if you do, and I do so hate you to have a cold. I can see your feet are quite wet already." And then Paul smiled to himself, remembering how Edgar Ford had once said: "A man must be at a woman's feet before he knows when they are getting wet, and is ready to lay his cloak across the puddles to keep them dry."

"I shall walk in the damp till you leave off being disagreeable," persisted Isabel.

"Well, what is it that you want me to say?"

"I want you to say that you think I am a most reasonable woman--not that I only appear to be."

"I can't say that, for it wouldn't be true; but I don't mind saying that I think a reasonable woman the most tiresome and detestable being under heaven."

And then Isabel came off the grass.

"I wish you thought better of me!" she said, with a sigh.

Paul laughed. "I'm very glad I don't. It is quite enough for me as it is, thank you."

"I mean, I wish you said pretty things to me, like other men do."

"But I am nothing if not original."

"It seems very unfortunate," murmured Isabel, "that you are the only man that I want to say pretty things to me, and that therefore you won't say them."

"Pardon me, Miss Carnaby, you are confusing cause and effect. I do not refrain from saying pretty things because you want me to say them, but you want me to say them because I refrain."

"Why are you so fond of making me cross?" asked Isabel with a pout.

"Because it is the most amusing form of sport I know. I used to think that rowing and fishing ran it close, but now I have decided that making you cross is the most fascinating pastime in the world--bar one."

"You've never tried the other."

"I know I've not. Probably that is why I still retain such a high opinion of it."

"I am not sure that it would amuse you if you did try it."

"Neither am I," replied Paul, "but I'm not going to try it till I am quite sure that it would not amuse you."

"Then don't you like to see me enjoying myself?"

"Certainly, within reasonable limits. I like to see children enjoying themselves, but there are some things that I should refuse to give them as playthings."

"But you would give those things to the children when they were old enough to appreciate them," said Isabel coaxingly.

"Perhaps."

"How soon do you think I shall be old enough to appreciate things?"

Paul smiled. "Perhaps when you have grown tired of living on refreshments at evening parties, and want some water from the well of Bethlehem for a change."

"Then do you despise me for liking refreshments at evening parties?" asked Isabel.

"Not in the least; but I think it is rather a youthful taste, like currant wine or raspberry vinegar. There will come a time when it won't satisfy you, and then you will cry out for living water from the well at Bethlehem--which, by the way, was your metaphor, not mine; but it expresses what I mean."

"And what will happen then?"

"Ah! that I can't say. It will depend upon whether any one out of the legions who have lackeyed you and taken you down to countless ball-suppers, is ready to go in jeopardy of his life for you; and that only time can show."

Isabel thought for a moment. "There is rather a good lesson for all women in our well-metaphor, isn't there?"

"Yes," replied Paul. "Women, as a rule, make such dreadful mistakes. You see, nothing but love will really satisfy a woman in the long run; and unattractive women, as a rule, acknowledge this. But attractive women get such a lot of admiration that they think at first that admiration will satisfy them."

"I know. Admiration is like porridge--awfully stodging, but you get hungry again almost as soon as you've eaten it."

"Exactly. Therefore," continued Paul, "an attractive woman is more likely to make this mistake than an unattractive one; yet when the time comes that her heart cries out for reality, she will need it quite as much as her less-admired sister, though probably by that time she will have thrown it away, and not be able to find it again. The unattractive woman, on the other hand, treasures up every bit of love she receives, and makes the most of it."

"I see; it is a serious thing to be an attractive woman after all," said Isabel thoughtfully. Then she looked up at Paul and smiled. "But it would be worse to be an unattractive one, wouldn't it? Oh! you don't think I ever shall be, do you, Mr. Seaton--not even when I'm old and grey? Please say you don't."

And Paul said it; and said it several times; and, what is more, he meant what he said.