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22 BLACK SHEEP.level road, and she turned them out of the forestboundaries towards the town, "I know nothingabout all that, except pour rire, as they say inParis, about everything under the sun,Ido beheve.To return to Arthur Felton; he is thelast person in the world with whomIcouldimagine any woman could get up anything moreserious than the flimsiest flirtation.""You did 'getup' that,however,Iimagine?"said Routh." Of course we did. We spouted very tritepoetry, and he sent me bouquets — yrery cheapones they were, too, and generally came late inthe evening, when they may,being warranted notto keep, be had at literally a dead bargain; andwe evenexchanged photographs — Idon't say portraits,y-ou w-ill observe. His is like enough;butthat is really nothing, even among the most.prudish of the blonde misses.Iwonder the haberdashersdon't send their likenesses withtheir bills,andIshall certainly give mine to the postmanhere;Iamalways grateful to the postman everywhere,anclIlike this one — he has nice eyes, hisnameis Hermann, anclhe does not smoke."