life could hardly be without its distinctive pleasures, all of them being
more or less pervaded by thrills and titillations from games of hazard,
and the perpetual risk of sensational surprises.

Long before this time Picotee had begun to be anxious to get home again,
but Menlove seemed particularly to desire her company, and pressed her to
sit awhile, telling her young friend, by way of entertainment, of various
extraordinary love adventures in which she had figured as heroine when
travelling on the Continent. These stories had one and all a remarkable
likeness in a certain point--Menlove was always unwilling to love the
adorer, and the adorer was always unwilling to live afterwards on account
of it.

'Ha-ha-ha!' in men's voices was heard from the distant dining-room as the
two women went on talking.

'And then,' continued Menlove, 'there was that duel I was the cause of
between the courier and the French valet. Dear me, what a trouble that
was; yet I could do nothing to prevent it. This courier was a very
handsome man--they are handsome sometimes.'

'Yes, they are. My aunt married one.'

'Did she? Where do they live?'

'They keep an hotel at Rouen,' murmured Picotee, in doubt whether this
should have been told or not.

'Well, he used to follow me to the English Church every Sunday regularly,
and I was so determined not to give my hand where my heart could never