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VERYTHING depends on the point of view and is rich in varying aspects. A picture is sublime from one corner of the room, a daub from another; a woman’s full face may be perfect, her profile a disappointment; above all, what you admire in yourself becomes highly distasteful in your neighbor. The moral is, I suppose, Tolerance; or if not that, something else which has escaped me.

When the duchess said that “it”—by which she meant the whole position of affairs—was “fun,” I laughed; on the other hand, Gustave de Berensac, after one astonished stare, walked to the hall door.

“Where is my carriage?” we heard him ask.

“It has started on the way back three, minutes ago, sir.”

“Fetch it back.”

“Sir! The driver will gallop down the hill; he could not be overtaken.”

“How fortunate!” said I.

“I do not see,” observed Mme. de Saint-Maclou, “that it makes all that difference.”