NO. IX. CRITICISM.

(_Miss Armstrong vindicates herself by scorning._)

You are a tissue of phrases. You feel only words. You love! What mockery
to hear you handle the worn, old words! You have secluded yourself in
careful isolation from the human world you seem to despise. You have no
right to its passions and solaces. Incarnate selfishness, dear friend, I
suspect you are. You would not permit the disturbance of a ripple in the
contemplative lake of your life such as love and marriage might bring.

Pray what right may you have to stew me in a saucepan up on your roof, and
to send me flavors of myself done up nicely into little packages labelled
deceitfully "love"? It is lucky that this time you have come across a
woman who has played the game before, and can meet you point by point. But
I am too weary to argue with a man who carries two-edged words, flattery
on one side and sneers on the reverse. Mark this one thing, nevertheless:
if I should decide to sell myself advantageously next season I should be
infinitely better than you,--for I am only a woman.

E. A.



NO. X. THE LIMITATION OF LIFE.

(_Eastlake summarizes, and intends to conclude._)

My lady, my humor of to-day makes me take up the charges in your last