armed by her charming correctness, as she sat there, it would be her line in life, he was certain, to reduce many theories, solemn Wimbledon-theories about the scandalous person, to the futility of so much broken looking-glass. Not naming her aunt,—since he didn't—she had of course to start, for the air of a morning call, some other hare or two; she asked for news of their few local friends, quite as if these good people mightn't ruefully have "cut" her, by what they had heard, should they have met her out on the road. She spoke of Mr Puddick, with perfect complacency, and in particular held poor Traffle very much as some master's fiddle-bow might have made him hang on the semi-tone of a silver string, when she referred to the visit he had paid the artist, and to the latter's having wondered whether he liked what he saw. She liked, more and more, Mora intimated, what was offered to her own view; Puddick was going to do, she was sure, such brilliant work,—so that she hoped immensely he would come again. Traffle found himself, yes,—it was positive—staying his breath for this; there was, in fact, a moment, that of her first throwing off her free "Puddick," when it wouldn't have taken much more to make him almost wish that, for rounded perfection, she'd say "Walter" at once. He would scarce have guaranteed even that there hadn't been just then some seconds of his betraying that imagination, in the demoralised eyes that her straight, clear, quiet beams sounded and sounded, against every pre-
