I danced with a young officer the other night, whom I love a thousand times more than he.

I often wonder why I feel so very cold to Isidore, for everybody says he is handsome, and other ladies admire him; but, somehow, he bores me: let me see now how it is...." And she seemed to make an effort to reflect.

In this I encouraged her.
"Yes!" I said, "try to get a clear idea of the state of your mind.

To me it seems in a great mess--chaotic as a rag-bag." "It is something in this fashion," she cried out ere long: "the man is too romantic and devoted, and he expects something more of me than I find it convenient to be.

He thinks I am perfect: furnished with all sorts of sterling qualities and solid virtues, such as I never had, nor intend to have.