creed.  She gets her. boots from the village shoemaker because his wife died.  Her eyes filled with tears at the mere thought of the man, and she told me she thought it right to encourage local talent.  In the boots I saw evidences of locality, —­ bumps, for instance, —­ but not of talent.  Pauline was very indignant and said she had no bumps on her feet.  “But you see my position?” I did, but I persuaded her to have some good boots made in London.  This she consented to do, rather unwillingly and on the distinct understanding that in the country she should continue to encourage local talent.  On wet days,” I ventured.

And at flower-shows, she added.

I have seen Pauline in the country, against a background of golden beech trees and brown bracken, look even beautiful; but in London she lacks something, possibly the right background.  She has glorious hair, but her maid can’t do it.  Pauline admits it, but she says she can’t send a nice woman away on that account; besides, she suffers from rheumatism, and Pauline’s particular part of the country suits her better than any other.

“Couldn’t she learn?” I suggested.

“No, she can’t,” said Pauline.  “She had lessons once, and she came back and did my hair like treacle, all over my head, —­ no idea, absolutely.  I should never look like you, whatever I did.”

“My dear Pauline,” I said, “what nonsense!”

“It’s not nonsense.  Father was saying only the other day that you are a beautiful creature, only no one seems to see it.”

“Dear Uncle Jim,” I said; “how delightful, and how like him!”

“But it’s true you are beautiful; only the part about the people not seeing it isn’t true:  that’s father’s way of putting it.  You are beautiful!”

“My dear child!”

“Why do you say ‘dear child’ to me?  People would think you were years and years older than I am.  Why do you always talk as if life were over?  Have you a secret sorrow?”

If Pauline, warm-hearted, loving Pauline had really thought I had, she would have been the last person to ask such a question.

“Do I look it?” I asked.

“No-o.  Only when people seem to spend the whole of their life in doing things for other people, it makes one suspect that they are saying to themselves, ’As we can’t be happy ourselves, we can see that other people are.’”

“What a philosopher you are, Pauline!  If you go on that supposition, you must have a terrible sorrow somewhere hidden behind that happy face of yours.”

Pauline is not meant to live in London.  She thanks people in a crowd for letting her pass.  If she is pushed off the pavement, she is only sorry that the person can be so rude as to do it .  She never gets into a ’bus or takes any vehicular advantage over a widow, and she feels choky if she sees any one very old.  “Do you know why?” she asked.  “Because they are, so near Heaven, and sometimes I think you see the reflection of it in their faces.”