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number of those whose hearts, as they approached her, beat
only just fast enough to remind them they had heads as well,
had kept her unacquainted with the supreme discipline of
her sex and age. She had had everything a girl could have:
kindness, admiration, bonbons, bouquets, the sense of ex-
clusion from none of the privileges of the world she lived in,
abundant opportunity for dancing, plenty of new dresses,
the London Spectator, the latest publications, the music of
Gounod, the poetry of Browning, the prose of George El-
iot.
These things now, as memory played over them, resolved
themselves into a multitude of scenes and figures. Forgotten
things came back to her; many others, which she had lately
thought of great moment, dropped out of sight. The result
was kaleidoscopic, but the movement of the instrument was
checked at last by the servant’s coming in with the name
of a gentleman. The name of the gentleman was Caspar
Goodwood; he was a straight young man from Boston, who
had known Miss Archer for the last twelvemonth and who,
thinking her the most beautiful young woman of her time,
had pronounced the time, according to the rule I have hint-
ed at, a foolish period of history. He sometimes wrote to her
and had within a week or two written from New York. She
had thought it very possible he would come in—had indeed
all the rainy day been vaguely expecting him. Now that she
learned he was there, nevertheless, she felt no eagerness to
receive him. He was the finest young man she had ever seen,
was indeed quite a splendid young man; he inspired her
with a sentiment of high, of rare respect. She had never felt

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