feminine delicacy as herself, good naturedly thought it but fair that such amusement should be afforded to a poor invalid who was debarred from the ordinary pleasures of life.

Mr Slope was madly in love, but hardly knew it. The signora spitted him, as a boy does a cockchafer on a cork, that she might enjoy the energetic agony of his gyrations. And she knew very well what she was doing.

Mr Slope having added to his person all such adornments as are possible to a clergyman making a morning visit, such as a clean neck tie, clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a soupçon of not necessary scent, called about three o’clock at the doctor’s house. At about this hour the signora was almost always in the back drawing–room. The mother had not come down. The doctor was out or in his own room. Bertie was out, and Charlotte at any rate left the room if any one called whose object was specially with her sister. Such was her idea of being charitable and sisterly.

Mr Slope, as was his custom, asked for Mr Stanhope, and was told, as was the servant’s custom, that the signora was in the drawing–room. Upstairs he accordingly went. He found her, as he always did, lying on her sofa with a French volume before her, and a beautiful little inlaid writing case open on her table. At the moment of his entrance she was in the act of writing.

‘Ah, my friend,’ said she, putting out her left hand to him across the desk, ‘I did not expect you to–day and was this very instant writing to you—’

Mr Slope, taking the soft fair delicate hand in his, and very soft and fair and delicate it was, bowed over it his huge red head and kissed it. It was a sight to see, a deed to record if the author could fitly do it, a picture to put on canvas. Mr Slope was big, awkward, cumbrous, and having his heart in his pursuit was ill at ease. The lady was fair, as we have said, and delicate; every thing about her was fine and refined; her hand in his looked like a rose lying among carrots, and when he kissed it he looked as a cow might do on finding such a flower among her food. She was graceful as a couchant goddess, and, moreover, as self–possessed as Venus must have been when courting Adonis.

Oh, that such grace and such beauty should have condescended to waste itself on such a pursuit!

‘I was in the act of writing to you,’ said she, ‘but now my scrawl may go into the basket;’ and she raised the sheet of gilded note paper from off her desk as though to tear it.

‘Indeed it shall not,’ said he, laying the embargo of half a stone weight of human flesh and blood upon the devoted paper. ‘Nothing that you write for my eyes, signora, shall be so desecrated,’ and he took up the letter, put that also among the carrots and fed on it, and then proceeded to read it.

‘Gracious me! Mr Slope,’ said she. ‘I hope you don’t mean to say that you keep all the trash I write to you. Half my time I don’t know what I write, and when I do, I know it is only fit for the black of the fire. I hope you have not that ugly trick of keeping letters.’

‘At any rate I don’t throw them into a waste–paper basket. If destruction is their doomed lot, they perish worthily, and are burnt on a pyre, as Dido was of old.’

‘With a steel pen stuck through them, of course,’ said she, ‘to make the simile more complete. Of all the ladies of my acquaintance I think Lady Dido was the most absurd. Why did she not do as Cleopatra did? Why did she not take out her ships and insist on going with him? She could not bear to lose the land she had got by a swindle; and then she could not bear the loss of her lover. So she fell between two stools. Mr Slope, whatever you do, never mingle love and business.’

Mr Slope blushed up to his eyes, and over his mottled forehead to the very roots of his hair. He felt sure that the signora knew all about his intentions with reference to Mrs Bold. His conscience told him that he was detected. His doom was to be spoken; he was to be punished for his duplicity, and rejected