'I know not--well, I am a woman. Adieu. You will not forget me.' And there, at all events, she spoke no more than truth. The modest price which I had put upon my portrait appeared to overtax the resources of Beacon Street, and the work remained upon my hands. That night Madame Enault's chimney caught fire--an occurrence unprecedented in the middle of August. I explained that I had burnt up some rubbish, which had proved to be remarkably inflammable, and made the fullest apologies; but the good lady's nerves did not recover their tone until after the exhibition of tincture of argentum--a sound dose. This, so far as I can recollect, was the last noticeable episode of my summer holiday. A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. I. At first, I simply laughed the idea to scorn. I refused to regard it, even for a moment, in a serious light. I jested with myself about it, and became positively witty on the subject. I let slip no opportunity to cast ridicule upon it. My chief regret was that I had no acquaintance in town to whom I could expatiate on the complete absurdity of the suggestion. In default of this, I took out of my toilet drawer the nine square inches of cracked mirror before which I was accustomed to do my shaving and cravat-tying, and, gazing curiously at the heavy-browed, rugged-featured visage therein reflected, I sarcastically inquired of it how soon it intended getting its portrait painted on ivory, and hung in a locket round a fair lady's neck? I entreated it, with sardonic humour, to give an example of a winning smile--of an ardent glance--of a beseeching gaze. Then I threw myself in my chair, put my feet upon my table, filled my rankest pipe with my strongest tobacco, and while I smoked and lolled, I bade myself, with a hoarse chuckle of mockery, amend the rudeness and unconventionality of my manners, and abandon all selfish and offensive habits. In short, I did everything to prove the folly and groundlessness of this preposterous notion--except to forget it.