IN A WINTER CITY.
and peasants, and make j'^our whole province
impoverislied and ill-content for the mere sake
of pleasing some strangers by the stucco and
the hoardings that their eyes are used to at
home; — well, that perhaps may be an open
The Lady Hilda Vorarlberg had written thus
far when she got tired, left off, and looked out
of the window on to the mountain-born and poet-
hymned river of Floraha. She had an idea that
she would write a novel; she was always going
to do things that she never did do.
After all they were not her own ideas that
she had written; but only those of a Floralian,
the Duca della Eocca, whom she had met tha
night before. But then the ideas of every¬
body have been somebody else's beforehand,—
Plato's, or Bion's, or Theojihrastus's; or yom*
favourite newspaper's ;—and the Lady Hilda, al¬
though she had been but two days in the Winter
City, had already in her first drive shuddered
at the stucco and the hoardings, and shiverea
at the boulevards and the little shaven trees.
For she was a person of very refined and fasti-