"Pardon me," said I, "I /am/ nine,--a very mystical number nine is too, and represents the Muses, who, you know, were always attendant upon Venus--or you, which is the same thing; so you can no more dispense with my company than you can with that of the Graces." "Good morning, Sir William," cried the Lady Hasselton, rising. I offered to hand her to the door; with great difficulty, for her hoop was of the very newest enormity of circumference; I effected this object. "Well, Count," said she, "I am glad to see you have brought so much learning from school; make the best use of it while it lasts, for your memory will not furnish you with a single simile out of the mythology by the end of next winter." "That would be a pity," said I, "for I intend having as many goddesses as the heathens had, and I should like to worship them in a classical fashion." "Oh, the young reprobate!" said the beauty, tapping me with her fan. "And pray, what other deities besides Venus do I resemble?" "All!" said I,--"at least, all the celestial ones!" Though half way through the door, the beauty extricated her hoop, and drew back. "Bless me, the gods as well as the goddesses?" "Certainly." "You jest: tell me how." "Nothing can be easier; you resemble Mercury because of your thefts." "Thefts!" "Ay; stolen hearts, and," added I, in a whisper, "glances; Jupiter, partly because of your lightning, which you lock up in the said glances,--principally because all things are subservient to you; Neptune, because you are as changeable as the seas; Vulcan, because you live among the flames you excite; and Mars, because--" "You are so destructive," cried my uncle. "Exactly so; and because," added I--as I shut the door upon the beauty--"because, thanks to your hoop, you cover nine acres of ground." "Ods fish, Morton," said my uncle, "you surprise me at times: one while you are so reserved, at another so assured; to-day so brisk, to-morrow so gloomy. Why now, Lady Hasselton (she is very comely, eh! faith, but not comparable to her mother) told me, a week ago, that she, gave you up in despair, that you were dull, past hoping for; and now, 'Gad, you had a life in you that Sid himself could not have surpassed. How comes it, Sir, eh?" "Why, Uncle, you have explained the reason; it was exactly because she said I was dull that I was resolved to convict her in an untruth." "Well, now, there is some sense in that, boy; always contradict ill report by personal merit. But what think you of her ladyship? 'Gad, you know what old Bellair said of Emilia. 'Make much of her: she's one of the best of your acquaintance. I like her countenance and behaviour. Well, she has a modesty not i' this age, a-dad she has.' Applicable enough; eh, boy?"