We have admired the exuberance of St.Mary of Egypt's locks, and irreverently compared them to the effects of Mrs.Allen's "World-wide Hair Restorer." We have observed that the forehead of Holbein's great Virgin is too high to please _us_, and made many other connoisseur-like remarks.

I have pointed out to Mr.Musgrave the Saint Catherine which has a look of Barbara, and we have both grown rather tired of St.Sebastian, stuck as full of darts as a pin-cushion of pins.

Now we are sitting down resting our eyes and our strained powers of criticism, and have fallen into easy talk.
"I am glad you are coming to dine at our _table d'hote_ to-night," say I, in a friendly tone.

"It will be nice for the general to have an Englishman to talk to.

I hope you will sit by him; he has been so much used to men all his life that he must get rather sick of having nothing but the chatter of one woman to depend upon." "At least he has no one but himself to blame for that," replies the young fellow, laughing.