“Because, to wit, life itself is a comedy,” said Henrietta, laughing. “Yes,” replied Effingham, “and a very brilliant one it would be if all the world were Miss Henriettas. I hope, my dear cousin, the compliment is sufficiently broad.” “Thank you, sir. I know how to take your fine speeches. Don’t think they deceive me.” “I’m rather a poor hand at compliments,” replied Effingham; “but, really, it is hard to do you the injustice, my fair cousin, of withholding them. Come, no reply, for I see my Cousin Clara is going to say something more flattering than what you are about to utter.” “Oh, no,” says Clara, slightly blushing; “I was only going to say that _Shylock_ really frightened me.” “It was very well done; much like Shuter at Castle Garden. How did you like it, Cousin Henrietta? Come, your criticism.” “Oh, what could you expect from a country girl like me?” and broke off the conversation by announcing the approach of a fox-hunter, who was an admirer. “How I envy them,” he says to Clara, applying to his nostrils, with a listless air, a delicate kind of snuff, “they are so gay.” Then after some conversation with Clara preparatory to making her the proffer of his hand, he describes his condition as “out of sorts,” as “rusting.” “Yes, more than rusting--I take interest in scarcely anything; I am wearied to death--with everything. What is life worth? Here are some hundreds of persons and they all seem delighted with the play, which tires me to death. I take no interest in it. _Shylock_ and _Antonio_ strut and spout without amusing me. I am already weary and everybody else seems to be impatient for the reappearance of the wonders. Why are they so much amused? For my part I am sick of all this and only stay because you stay. The nearest approach to happiness I make is in your presence,” at which, of course, the young lady blushes, and after this near approach he follows it up by declaring “how beautiful she is,” that he really thinks that she could charm away his melancholy if she desired, upon which she asks: “How, pray?” “By smiling at me.” Clara smiled and said: “Be merry then; indeed, Cousin, you could become so again if you chose. Do not determine to find fault with everything and think everything means you. Seek novelty; you say that all here seem to take pleasure in the play while you do not. They are pleased because it is new to them. I have never seen a play, and I am highly pleased. If you have been often to the theater there is nothing strange in your thinking this poor one excellent, though it seems beautiful to me. But you will find usually an interest in other things. Try it, and see if my philosophy is not true.” His response is that he knew but one means. “What is that?” “To have a companion.” The meaning suddenly flashed upon her, and she turned away. “Clara, dearest Clara, if you take such an interest in my welfare why--”