Dorothy reads me your letters from the _Daily Tory_; she has elevated literary tastes, you know.

No, it is not what you write, it is the way you write it, that charms her; and, that I may the better appreciate, she obligingly accompanies her readings with remarks descriptive of the author." "Bess, do you think that fair ?" and Dorothy's face put on a reproachful red.
"At least it's true," returned Bess composedly.
That morning Richard had been flattered with a letter from the editor of a magazine, asking for a five-thousand word article on a leading personality of the Cabinet.

This helped him bear the raillery of Bess; and the raillery, per incident, told him how much and deeply he was in the thoughts of Dorothy, which information made the world extremely beautiful.

Richard had waited until his thirtieth year to begin to live! He was brought back from a dream of Dorothy by the unexpected projection of Mr.Fopling into the conversation.
"The _Daily Tory_!" repeated Mr.Fopling, in feeble disgust.

"I hate newspapahs; they inflame the mawsses." "Inflame what ?" asked Richard.
"Inflame the mawsses! the common fellahs!" Mr.Fopling was emphatic; and when Mr.Fopling was emphatic he squeaked.
Mr.Fopling's father had been a beef contractor.