our beloved are her own, or ours lent to her for the occasion.
Would the same woman be addressed as 'My Queen!' by one
correspondent, and as 'Dear Popsy Wopsy!' by another, or would she
to all her lovers be herself?"

"You might try it," I suggested to the Woman of the World,
"selecting, of course, only the more interesting."

"It would cause so much unpleasantness, don't you think?" replied
the Woman of the World. "Those I left out would never forgive me.
It is always so with people you forget to invite to a funeral--they
think it is done with deliberate intention to slight them."

"The first love-letter I ever wrote," said the Minor Poet, "was when
I was sixteen. Her name was Monica; she was the left-hand girl in
the third joint of the crocodile. I have never known a creature so
ethereally beautiful. I wrote the letter and sealed it, but I could
not make up my mind whether to slip it into her hand when we passed
them, as we usually did on Thursday afternoons, or to wait for
Sunday."

"There can be no question," murmured the Girton Girl abstractedly,
"the best time is just as one is coming out of church. There is so
much confusion; besides, one has one's Prayer-book--I beg your
pardon."

"I was saved the trouble of deciding," continued the Minor Poet.
"On Thursday her place was occupied by a fat, red-headed girl, who
replied to my look of inquiry with an idiotic laugh, and on Sunday I
searched the Hypatia House pews for her in vain. I learnt