mothers."

"Beatrice is perfect as a mother," sighed Miss Ambient quite
tremendously and with her fingers interlaced on her embroidered
knees.

"I shall go up and see my boy," her brother went on." Do you suppose
he's asleep?"

"Beatrice won't let you see him, dear"--as to which our young lady
looked at me, though addressing our companion.

"Do you call that being perfect as a mother?" Ambient asked.

"Yes, from her point of view."

"Damn her point of view!" cried the author of "Beltraffio." And he
left the room; after which we heard him ascend the stairs.

I sat there for some ten minutes with Miss Ambient, and we naturally
had some exchange of remarks, which began, I think, by my asking her
what the point of view of her sister-in-law could be.

"Oh it's so very odd. But we're so very odd altogether. Don't you
find us awfully unlike others of our class?--which indeed mostly, in
England, is awful. We've lived so much abroad. I adore 'abroad.'
Have you people like us in America?"

"You're not all alike, you interesting three--or, counting Dolcino,
four--surely, surely; so that I don't think I understand your