He is the chosen guide, the tutor whom the young pupil chooses for herself.
She retires with him, suspecting no lesson, safe against rebuke, throwing herself head and heart into the narration as she can hardly do into her task-work; and there she is taught,--how she shall learn to love; how she shall receive the lover when he comes; how far she should advance to meet the joy; why she should be reticent, and not throw herself at once into this new delight.

It is the same with the young man, though he would be more prone even than she to reject the suspicion of such tutorship.

But he too will there learn either to speak the truth, or to lie; and will receive from his novel lessons either of real manliness, or of that affected apishness and tailor-begotten demeanour which too many professors of the craft give out as their dearest precepts.
At any rate the close intercourse is admitted.

Where is the house now from which novels are tabooed?
Is it not common to allow them almost indiscriminately, so that young and old each chooses his own novel?
Shall he, then, to whom this close fellowship is allowed,--this inner confidence,--shall he not be careful what words he uses, and what thoughts he expresses, when he sits in council with his young friend?
This, which it will certainly be his duty to consider with so much care, will be the matter of his work.

We know what was thought of such matter, when Lydia in the play was driven to the necessity of flinging "_Peregrine Pickle_ under the toilet," and thrusting "_Lord Aimwell_ under the sofa." We have got beyond that now, and are tolerably sure that our girls do not hide their novels.