“You must hate me,” she sniffled finally.“No ... I don’t. I’m disappointed in what happened. It hurt me a lot. I thought we meant more than ...hat to each other. It took me quite a while to realize I was wrong.”“No, you weren’t wrong. We did mean more to each other than just friends. I let myself be dazzled by dreams of bright lights and glamour and fame. I lost all sense of what was important to me,” she said forcefully, beginning to regain her composure. “Does that mean ... you can forgive me?”. " Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a delightful note on the Pastor quum traheret--wait, and I will listen to you afterwards."There was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in a hand as small as possible, another note on the margin of his Horace, and then looking at the duke with the air of a man who thinks he has an idea of his own, while he is only commenting upon the idea of another, said, --"Go on, my dear duke, go on--I listen." Sire," said Blacas, who had for a. More

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