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common in France than among ourselves. She has, however, taken every pains to draw the veil about her identity, and it may be said on her behalf that it is none of our business who she was or what she was. But only a very unimaginative reader will spare his conjectures. There is something extremely provoking to curiosity in the image, however shadowy, of a woman clever enough to have all this cleverness addressed to her. The author tells her early in the book that she has "a nature so raffinée"—something more than our "refined"—"as to be for him the summing-up of a civilization." It is not, apparently, without reason that he writes to her: "Between your head and your heart I never know which is to carry the day. You don't know yourself; but you always give the victory to your head." She had a head worth favouring. Constantly busy himself with philological studies, he recommends her to learn Greek as a pastime, and tells her how to set to work. It soon appears that she has taken his advice, and in the course of time we find her enjoying Homer and the tragedians. Later, when, with the privilege of a twenty years' friendship, he utters all the crudities that come into his head—and they grow very numerous as he grows older—he scolds her for being alarmed at what she finds in Aristophanes. The burden of his complaint from the first is her reserve, her