to the point of indiscretion, her husband most assuredly knows all
about it, by this, and he and I are still the best of friends. So you
perceive that if I ever did so far forget myself it could scarcely
have amounted to a hanging matter.
I am doubly sure that Margaret Hugonin was beautiful, for the reason
that I have never found a woman under forty-five who shared my
opinion. If you clap a Testament into my hand, I cannot affirm that
women are eager to recognise beauty in one another; at the utmost they
concede that this or that particular feature is well enough. But when
a woman is clean-eyed and straight-limbed, and has a cheery heart,