“Rubbish,” growled Frank; “that any man in his senses should write such infernal nonsense, and then have the face to put his name to it! _His_ moss-rose, indeed! and this is what women like. These are the coxcombs they prefer to a plain, sensible, true-hearted gentleman--put wisdom, talent, courage, faith, and truth in one scale, and weigh them against a soft voice, a large pair of whiskers, and varnished boots in the other--why, the boots have it twenty to one! and it is for this thoughtless, ungrateful, unfeeling, volatile, ill-judging sex that we are all prepared to go through fire and water, sacrifice friends, country, fame, position, honour itself! Blanche! Blanche is as bad as the rest, but _I_ at least will no longer be such a fool. I have no idea of becoming a _pis-aller_--a substitute--a stop-gap--if this hair-brained peer should change his mind, and that warlike _roué_ find some one he likes better than Miss Kettering. O Blanche! Blanche! that I had never known you, or having known you, could rate you at your real value, and give you up without a struggle!” “How do you do, Miss Kettering? What a beautiful day!” Only the last sentence of the foregoing, be it observed, was spoken aloud; Frank had just schooled himself to the point of separation for ever, when the door opened and Blanche entered, looking so exactly as she used, with the same graceful gestures, and the same kind smile, that her empire was, for the moment, completely re-established; and although she, too, had meant to be very reserved and very distant, she could not forbear greeting her old admirer with all the cordiality of bygone days. These young people loved one another very much; each would have given the world to pour forth hopes, and fears, and misgivings, and vows, and reproaches, and pardons, into the other’s ear, but the lip _will_ tremble when the heart is full, and they got no further than “How do you do?” and “What a beautiful day!” Blanche was the first to regain her composure, as is generally the case with a lady, perhaps from her being more habituated to losing it--perhaps from her whole training being one of readier hypocrisy than that of man. Be this how it may, the deeper water, when stirred, is longer in smoothing its ruffled surface; and whilst the lover’s lip shook, and his heart beat, the girl’s voice was steady and tranquil, though she dared not trust herself, save with the commonplace topics and every-day conversation of society. They tried Chiswick--the new singer--the Drawing-room--Lady Ormolu’s ball--the opera--and the Park; this last was tender ground, and Blanche coloured to the temples when Frank hesitated and stammered out (so different from his usual manly, open address) that he “_thought_ he had seen her yesterday, and her horse was looking remarkably well. By the by, was she not riding with----”