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Rh that Dunstone and I, who were once old friends, talked civil twaddle for the space of one hour—theatres, concerts and assemblies chiefly—and then parted again. The furniture had all been altered—there were two "cosey nooks" in the room after the recipe in the Born Lady. It was plain to me, it is plain to every one, I find, that Mrs. Dunstone is, in the sun of prosperity, rapidly developing an extremely florid vulgarity. And afterwards I discovered that she had forgotten her music, and evidently enjoyed her meals. Yet I for one can witness that five years ago there was that about her—I can only extend my arm with quivering digits. But it was something very sweet and dainty, something that made her white and thoughtful, and marked her off from the rest of womankind. I sometimes fancy it may have been anæmia in part, but it was certainly poverty and mourning in the main.

You may think that this is a story of disillusionment. When I first heard the story, I thought so too. But so far as Dunstone goes, that is not the case. It is rare that I see him now, but the other day we smoked two cigars apiece together. And in a moment of confidence he spoke of her. He said how anxious he felt for her health, called her his "Dainty Little Lady," and spoke of the coarseness of other women. I am afraid this is not a very eventful story, and yet there is that— That very convenient gesture, an arm protruded and flickering fingers, conveys my meaning best. Perhaps you will understand.