deira, and to the confusion of all ladies who think. He looked at her suddenly, as if for the first time.
'You don't think?' he asked.
Lanice blushed. 'I'm afraid I do. At least I draw pictures and I read serious works. You know, not merely the 'Godey's Book' and "Hearth and Home."' (Mr. Fox was the proprietor of the latter.)
'How splendid!' he exclaimed. 'I'd been saying to myself, this young lady is charming, lovely, generous, but probably she does not think, and now I find you are, beyond any reasonable doubt, a great mind.'
'But do you like ladies to think? I thought you did not.'
'Why do you say that?'
'You just drank to the confusion of all ladies who think.'
'How cruelly you mistake me. Ladies—especially wise ones, and how I admire that type—are never so irresistible as when they are somewhat confused. All this evening I have been saying to myself, "This young lady is charming, lovely, generous—she thinks, but nothing can confuse her." Look at yourself now in the glass! Probably you write stories as well as read them. Well, here's to the confusion of all lady authoresses—may they be extensively red.'
And at this atrocious pun the gifted Mr. Fox laughed convulsively. Lanice obliged him by blushing until the tears stood in her eyes. He led the conversation back to herself. It came out, she had had some dozen stories already published, a few even in
