THESE stories, mademoiselle, as your intuition tells you, are for
old-fashioned young people only; and should be read in the Golden Future,
some snowy evening by the fire after a home dinner à deux. Your
predestined husband, mademoiselle, is to extend his god-like figure upon
a sofa, with an ash-tray convenient. You are to do the reading, curled up
in the big velvet wing-chair, with the lamp at your left elbow and the
fender under your pretty feet. As for me, I shall venture to smile at you
now and then from the printed page--but with discretion, mademoiselle,
not inconveniencing your party à deux. For, to be rid of me, you have
merely to close this book.
[Illustration]