only a homely old woman; no prestige comes in to garnish the unvarnished
fact--a plain old maid, my dear--with not even the remembrance of beauty
as a consolation, nor its remnant as a sign of past triumphs, 'only this
and nothing more,' as that wonderful man Poe makes his raven say. We
never find our level until we go among people who know and care nothing
about us, who have never 'heard of us'--that exordium of most greetings
from folks of our own class. It is absolutely refreshing to be so
unaffectedly despised and slighted--it does one a world of good, there
is no doubt of that, especially when one's grandfather was a
Revolutionary notability, and other antecedents of a piece--but men are
all alike at heart, only the worldly ones wear flimsy masks, you know,
and pretend to adore intellect and ugliness, when beauty is the only
thing they care for--all a sham, my dear, in any case."

"Yes, all alike," I repeated, making, as I spoke, one mental entire
reservation. "All _vain_ alike, I mean; flatter their vanity ever so
little and they are at your very feet, asking 'for more,' like Oliver
Twist; more bread for _amour propre_, the insatiable! It was that sketch
of mine that wrought the spell, though unintentionally, of course, and
the sly fellow knew very well that it was no caricature--that is, if he
peeped, as he pretends--but a tolerably correct likeness that might have
satisfied Sall herself. By-the-by, I have a great mind to bestow it upon
him as a 'sop for Cerberus,' should her jealousy ever be aroused by your
reports of his devotion to me, or admiration rather, most unequivocally
avowed, it must be acknowledged. I really had no intention of injuring
Sally, and, if you think it best, will make the _amende honorable_ by
being as cross as possible to him to-morrow."

"No, no, carry out your first intention and conciliate him; for,
remember, he has us in the hollow of his hand. Bestow the picture, by