be friends, I must tell you my faults; or, rather, my fault. Do you remember what some one wrote over the grave of Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans? 'Ci-gît l'oisiveté' idleness being the mother of all the vices, these said vices being all very accurately represented by her daughters. I do not know whether idleness has been quite so productive with me, but I know that it is my besetting sin; I hate being obliged to do any thing; I want you to do every thing that I ought; to write for me, think for me, feel for me!"
"I perceive," exclaimed Maynard, laughing, "that mine is not to be a sinecure office!"
"Oh," returned the other, "you may always leave, at least, half undone of whatever I ask you to do; I only make an exception in favour of my love-letters; there you may do a little more: in those sort of affairs, it is always safe to exaggerate!"
"You do not mean to say," exclaimed the secretary, looking the surprise he felt, "that I am to write your love-letters?"
