me. A kind, lovable girl she is. And she knows how to deal skilfully with "semi-tones" of every description. Her eyes are gentle, her face a little faded and careworn; there is something maternal about her.
"We take everything so very seriously, so very much au tragique," she says. "And that, you see, puts us more in their power. We should analyse things less, and learn rather to glide over them. Analysis is a two-edged weapon: it easily turns and wounds you. Do endeavour to pass along with a cursory look about you, even with half-closed eyes; things will seem different at once. Don't cry any more: and if he should come, the servant is to let him in, is she not?"
"On no account; on no account;" I cried, in a fury.
"But why?" she murmured, gently stroking my hair. "Why? To let him in—that does not bind you in any way: you are free to act as you like. And why not hear what he has to say?"
"Because I have heard him already."
"And you would not believe him? You were not right in that. It is so easy to believe! … And whether the thing is true or not,
