able to say 'Amy,' or to say 'Ginevra,' with such a trill as they are saying it. 'Ginevra, my beloved.' 'My Amy, my better self.' 'My other me.' There is something almost painful in love like this. 'Are you well, Ginevra?' 'Quite well, Amy.' Heavens, the joy of Amy because Ginevra is quite well. 'How did my Amy sleep?' 'I had a good night.' How happy is Ginevra because Amy has had a good night. All this time they have been slowly approaching each other, drawn by a power stronger than themselves. Their intention is to kiss. They do so. Cosmo snorts, and betakes himself to some other room, his bedroom probably, where a man may be alone with mannish things, his razor, for instance. The maidens do not resent his rudeness. They know that poor Cosmo's time will come, and they are glad to be alone, for they have much to say that is for no other mortal ears. Some of it is sure to go into the diary; indeed if we were to put our ear to the drawer where the diary is we could probably hear its little heart ticking in unison with theirs. It is Ginevra who speaks first. She is indeed the bolder of the two. She grips Amy's hand and says quite firmly, 'Amy, shall we go to _another_ to-night?' This does not puzzle Amy, she is prepared for it, her honest grey eyes even tell that she has wanted it, but now that it is come she quails a little. 'Another theatre?' she murmurs. 'Ginevra, that would be five in one week.' Ginevra does not blanch. 'Yes,' she says recklessly, 'but it is also only eight in seventeen years.' 'Isn't it,' says Amy, comforted. 'And they have taught us so much, haven't they? Until Monday, dear, when we went to our first real play we didn't know what Life is.' 'We were two raw, unbleached school-girls, Amy--absolutely unbleached.' It is such a phrase as this that gives Ginevra the moral ascendancy in