“And his Countship,” said I, “will accept your invitation without asking his uncle’s leave.” “Come, that is bold for a gentleman of--let me see, thirteen--are you not?” “Really,” answered I, “one learns to forget time so terribly in the presence of Lady Hasselton that I do not remember even how long it has existed for me.” “Bravo!” cried the knight, with a moistening eye; “you see, Madam, the boy has not lived with his old uncle for nothing.” “I am lost in astonishment!” said the lady, glancing towards the glass; “why, you will eclipse all our beaux at your first appearance; but--but--Sir William--how green those glasses have become! Bless me, there is something so contagious in the effects of the country that the very mirrors grow verdant. But--Count--Count--where are you, Count? [I was exactly opposite to the fair speaker.] Oh, there you are! Pray, do you carry a little pocket-glass of the true quality about you? But, of course you do; lend it me.” “I have not the glass you want, but I carry with me a mirror that reflects your features much more faithfully.” “How! I protest I do not understand you!” “The mirror is here!” said I, laying my hand to my heart. “‘Gad, I must kiss the boy!” cried my uncle, starting up. “I have sworn,” said I, fixing my eyes upon the lady,--“I have sworn never to be kissed, even by women. You must pardon me, Uncle.” “I declare,” cried the Lady Hasselton, flirting her fan, which was somewhat smaller than the screen that one puts into a great hall, in order to take off the discomfort of too large a room,--“I declare, Count, there is a vast deal of originality about you. But tell me, Sir William, where did your nephew acquire, at so early an age--eleven, you say, he is--such a fund of agreeable assurance?” “Nay, Madam, let the boy answer for himself.” “_Imprimis_, then,” said I, playing with the ribbon of my cane,--“_imprimis_, early study of the best authors,--Congreve and Farquhar, Etherege and Rochester; secondly, the constant intercourse of company which gives one the spleen so overpoweringly that despair inspires one with boldness--to get rid of them; thirdly, the personal example of Sir William Devereux; and, fourthly, the inspiration of hope.” “Hope, sir?” said the Lady Hasselton, covering her face with her fan, so as only to leave me a glimpse of the farthest patch upon her left cheek,--“hope, sir?” “Yes, the hope of being pleasing to you. Suffer me to add that the hope has now become certainty.” “Upon my word, Count--” “Nay, you cannot deny it; if one can once succeed in impudence, one is irresistible.” “Sir William,” cried Lady Hasselton, “you may give the Count your chariot of green and gold, and your four Flanders mares, and send his mother’s maid with him. He shall not go with me.” “Cruel! and why?” said I. “You are too”--the lady paused, and looked at me over her fan. She was really very handsome--“you are too _old_, Count. You must be more than nine.”