however, very few people were ever sent away, her dearest friends must have been legion.

"I see nobody," she said again and again to her maid Françine, "but admit So-and-So all the same." The last clause, however, only applied to certain people whose name Françine knew by heart.

Mr and Mrs Nobody were sent away with no sort of ceremony. People worth knowing, that is, people with big purses, big names, or big anything, were admitted and announced with a flourish of trumpets. Poor little Françine, who was a peasant girl from Normandy, adored "Mademoiselle Silvare" as much as anybody, and adored everybody else for doing the same. She was not too simple to understand how matters stood. Madame Wingfield, with the rosy face and round eyes, and the dimpled hands that dropped their hold of everything, had the money, and Mademoiselle had the brains to make Madame's money worth having. Françine, foolish little thing as she was, saw it all clearly enough, and envied Kitty's gifts, that made her so necessary to other people. All day long the same sum was going on: Mademoiselle's cleverness × Mademoiselle's power of fascination = Madame's livres sterling.

Kitty certainly initiated Myra into the art of leading a pleasant life; and did not Myra do well to be grateful? She had suffered terribly from ennui till Kitty's era, in spite of the natural advantages of independence, wealth, and position. Now she found every day delightful, every bit of bread sweet as a freshly-gathered nut. She had plenty of flattery, as much homage as she well knew what to do with, and only enough leisure to give zest to gaiety. Her "At Homes" were pronounced charming; her little dinners, perfect; her maidservants, angels; her men-servants, archangels; and the whole transformation was Kitty's work!

How could Kitty be sufficiently extolled, petted, rewarded! Myra was by nature Kitty's inferior, but she had it in her power to make her happy, which she did in her own lazy way. Kitty was told to get this and that luxury for herself, and she got it. Kitty was told to instal herself in such and such a

room, and she obeyed. Her room was the crowning glory of Kitty's existence. Like all women, she loved pretty things; it was chiefly her craving for pretty things that had led her out of Bohemia; here she had them, enough and to spare. No duchess had softer carpets, easier arm-chairs, richer curtains, than she, in the fashionable apartments in which they were located. She had an elegant little piano, and took lessons in singing, practising the new operas out of music-books bound in white and gold. The last new drama of Emile Augier, the last new novel of Cherbuliez or Octave Feuillet, the last number of the Révue des Deux Mondes, lay on her table, for she affected literary dilletantism now, and could discuss any subject whatever, from Comtism to the Mexican Loan downwards, with piquancy if not with discrimination.

She was wonderful, this Kitty Silver! and Monsieur D, a member of the Institute, who attended Madame Wingfield's soirées, sat at her feet, and liked to hear her talk better than any of his associates. She was strong on politics too, and Myra was occasionally honoured by the visit of Monsieur le Comte de and Monsieur L-, both of whom were statesmen, but not too much lifted above ordinary mortals to appreciate the bright wit, or downright practical wisdom, of an Englishwoman, who always looked handsome, and was always dressed perfectly.

For dress is said to be the most important art in a woman's educational curriculum, and Kitty had mastered it thoroughly. She knew exactly where good taste ends and bad taste begins; and it was no small credit to her that not even an envious tongue could find anything to say against her milliner or herself. Such a triumph is not obtained without effort, and it may be safely affirmed that, what with the adornment of her outer, and the education of her inner, woman, Kitty had not much time to spare.

Things which come naturally to other ladies had to be acquired by her, and she was ever on the alert lest she should be caught tripping. She was seldom caught tripping. Ah! she was wonderful!

All circumstances considered, it was no wonder that Myra and Kitty were both popular, and that their drawing-room was filled with pleasant people whenever they chose to throw it open. It was curious that, though Kitty was the most admired, it was always Myra to whom men made proposals of marriage, and Myra's suitors would have become quite troublesome without Kitty to keep them off. It was so natural to Myra to find men pleasant when they paid court to her, and she seemed such a confiding little thing, that if Kitty had not acted the part of the Dragon, the golden apples would have been stolen by the first audacious adventurer.

Once Myra had said, after a long talk about lovers and affairs in general

"I can't make out how it is that you are not jealous, Kitty. I never had a friend who was not jealous before. I suppose it is because you have wit enough to see that people care for me because I am rich and stupid, and for you because you are clever and handsome. I wish I were you."

"And I wish I were you," said Kitty, caressing her patroness as if she were a child; "I wish I were you."

And she looked up fondly into her face as she spoke.

"Oh, you wouldn't like it," said Myra, gravely comic; "you would find it dull. Just compare the abundance of things in your mind to the emptiness of mine. You think more in five minutes than I do in a day."

"I wish I didn't think so much, sometimes," Kitty said; "but I suppose one can't help it."

"When two people live together, one of them must think, and thinking is hard work for women. Wouldn't it be better for us both if I were to marry? I don't wish to marry, I like my freedom so much, but marriage has advantages."

And Myra pursed her little mouth and looked contemplative.

Kitty looked contemplative too.

"There is time enough for that," she said; "we are very happy as we are!"

"We might go on being happy just the same," said Myra;

"love for a man would never be much more to me than friendship for you. People scoff at women's friendships, but I am sure they are worth as much as anything else in the world."

"Then why marry at all?" said Kitty, looking up.

"Because," Myra said, "I think if you go on working so hard for me, I shall grow to be a bugbear to you in time, and that would be wretched."

"Never! never!" cried Kitty, emphatically, pressing her friend's hand. "Never!"

"It would not be your fault, but in the natural course of things. No one's patience lasts for ever; and, you know, things do vex you sometimes."

This was said in allusion to one or two bursts of vexation on Kitty's part, when people had been provoking, servants dilatory, dressmakers unpunctual, or Myra herself intractable in little things. Can we act the part of angels always? Will any silken slipper cover the foot of clay?

Kitty suffered patiently a reproach that she felt she did not. deserve. From that time she carefully kept out of Myra's sight any stones that clogged the domestic wheels, whether little or large, and Myra said no more about marrying. It must be confessed that Kitty's part of the compact was by far the hardest to keep. Myra gave what had cost her nothingrank, money, ease; but Kitty gave time, thought, character, and capabilities, service of brain and lip without stint or spare.

One morning she was busily engaged in making a head-dress for Myra, when Françine came in, looking more puzzled than it was her wont to do; for Françine's mistress was, algebraically speaking, an unknown quantity to her, and she was constantly wishing that Kitty were less clever, or that she herself were less stupid.

For instance, there had come to-day to the door a little shy, ill-dressed girl, who wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and carried a cotton umbrella, asking in broken French to see Mademoiselle Silver, her dearest friend.

H

Françine went with her story to Kitty, half-crying with embarrassment, and Kitty had said, looking cross, but not unpleasant

"You little goose, Françine! haven't I told you a dozen times that my dearest friends never carry umbrellas—and cotton ones, too! preposterous! One of the dressmaker's English girls, of course; I can't see her now."

"Mais non, Mademoiselle," began Françine, "elle vient d'arriver d'Angleterre, et s'appelle-s'appelle-mon Dieu, qu'est-ce que c'est que ce nom-là ! Ah! Normand, c'est ça.”

Kitty suddenly seemed to see a hair on the carpet, and stooped to pick it up.

Laura in Paris! She turned hot and cold, and sick with dismay. How could she see her? How could she excuse herself from seeing her? What could she say to her?

She rose and went to the open window, feeling stifled. Hundreds of painful thoughts were rushing through her mind. If Laura were in Paris, surely Dr Norman was in Paris too; and if Dr Norman, Prissy and Wattie. What a scandal would be created by their downright homely ways! and Dr Norman might perhaps press his suit upon her. How could she shield herself from his dreaded affection?

In this first moment of overwhelming agitation, it seemed possible to her to do a cowardly and heartless thing—namely, to deny herself to Laura, free herself-it is true, by a piece of falseness from the slavery of sentiment to which she had so long subjected herself. But she paused before doing this thing, and the pause saved her.

'Françine," she said, sharply, "this demoiselle is English, and does not know French customs. But how could you be so stupid as not to see by a glance that she was a lady? Admit her at once."

And, in another moment, Laura and Kitty were kissing each other, woman-wise, and Laura could do nothing but laugh and cry, feeling herself in such an uncertain sort of Paradise!

"I never dreamed of seeing you," Kitty said, holding the