"The fact is, I have never loved any one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It _is_ a noose, you know."--GEORGE ELIOT. It was the middle of July. The season had reached the climax which precedes a collapse. The heat was intense. The pace had been too great to last. The rich sane were already on their way to Scotch moor or Norwegian river; the rich insane and the poor remained, and people with daughters--assiduously entertaining the dwindling numbers of the "uncertain, coy, and hard to please" _jeunesse dorée_ of the present day. There were some great weddings fixed for the end of July, proving that marriage was not extinct,--prospective weddings which, like iron rivets, held t…
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