“O, no! of course not,” the wise fairy interposes, with a little laugh.  “You young ladies do not do such things, of course.  But, do you know, I heard of a lady who wore a switch into a riding-school ring one day, and it came off, and the riding master had to keep it in his pocket until the end of the session.”

Little does the wise fairy know of the society young lady’s ways!  What she has determined to say, she declines to retain unsaid, and so she cries:  “And you do thrust your head forward so awkwardly, Nell!”

“‘We are ladies,’” quotes Nell, “and we can’t answer you,” and the society young lady finds herself alone with the wise fairy, who is suddenly very busy with her books, and after a moment, she renews her announcement that she is not coming any more.  “Well, I wouldn’t,” the wise fairy says, looking thoughtfully at her.  “You make the others unhappy, and that is not desirable, and you will not be taught.  I gave you fair warning that the master would be severe, but those who come here to learn enjoy their lessons.  Once in a great while there are ladies who do not wish to be taught, but they find it out very soon, as you have.”

“There is always a good reason for everything,” the master says gravely.  “Now, I have seen many great men who could not learn to ride.  There was Gambetta.  Nothing would make a fine rider out of that man!  Why?  Because for one moment that his mind was on his horse, a hundred it was on something else.  And Jules Verne!  He could not learn!  And Emile Giardin!  They had so many things to think about!  Now, perhaps it is so with this young lady.  Society demands so much, one must do so many things, that she cannot bend her mind to this one little art.  It is unfortunate, but then she is not the first!” And with a little salute he turns away, and the society young lady, much crosser than she was before he invented this apology for her, comes into the dressing room and—­ bids you farewell?  Not at all!  Says that she is sorry, and that she knows that she can learn, and is going to try.  “And I suppose now that nothing will make her go!” Nell says, lugubriously, as you saunter homeward.

You are still conscious of stiffness, Esmeralda?  That is not a matter for surprise or for anxiety.  All your life you have been working for strength, for even your dancing-school teacher was not one of those scientific ballet-masters who, like Carlo Blasis, would have taught you that the strength of a muscle often deprives it of flexibility and softness.  You desire that your muscles should be rigid or relaxed at will.  Go and stand in front of your mirror, and let your head drop forward toward either shoulder, causing your whole torso to become limp.  Now hold the head erect, and try to reproduce the feeling.  The effect is awkward, and not to be practised in public, but the exercise enables you to perceive for yourself when you are stiff about the shoulders and waist.  Now drop your head backward, and swing