stockings; she was very wicked.” 

“She was a soubrette,” Gertrude announced, who had never seen a play in her life. “They call that a soubrette. It will be a great chance to learn French.” Charlotte gave a little soft, helpless groan. She had a vision of a wicked, theatrical person, clad in pink stockings and red shoes, and speaking, with confounding volubility, an incomprehensible tongue, flitting through the sacred penetralia of that large, clean house. 

“That is one reason in favor of their coming here,” Gertrude went on. “But we can make Eugenia speak French to us, and Felix. I mean to begin—the next time.” Mr. Wentworth had kept her standing near him, and he gave her his earnest, thin, unresponsive glance again. 

“I want you to make me a promise, Gertrude,” he said. “What is it?” she asked, smiling. “Not to get excited. Not to allow these—these occurrences to be an occasion for excitement.” She looked down at him a moment, and then she shook her head. “I don’t think I can promise that, father. I am excited already.” 

Mr. Wentworth was silent a while; they all were silent, as if in recognition of something audacious and portentous. “I think they had better go to the other house,” said Charlotte, quietly. “I shall keep them in the other house,” Mr. Wentworth subjoined, more pregnantly. 

Gertrude turned away; then she looked across at Robert Acton. Her cousin Robert was a great friend of hers; she often looked at him this way instead of saying things. Her glance on this occasion, however, struck him as a substitute for a larger volume of diffident utterance than usual, inviting him to observe, among other things, the inefficiency of her father’s design—if design it was—for diminishing, in the interest of quiet nerves, their occasions of contact with their foreign relatives. But Acton immediately complimented Mr. Wentworth upon his liberality. “That’s a very nice thing to do,” he said, “giving them the little house. You will have treated them handsomely, and, whatever happens, you will be glad of it.” Mr. Wentworth was liberal, and he knew he was liberal. It gave him pleasure to know it, to feel it, to see it recorded; and this pleasure is the only palpable form of self-indulgence with which the narrator of these incidents will be able to charge him.“A three days’ visit at most, over there, is all I should have found possible,” Madame Münster remarked to her brother, after they had taken possession of the little white house. “It would have been too _intime_—decidedly too _intime_. Breakfast, dinner, and tea 

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