The parents of Sophia Ann were much shocked at this tragic menace; and the mother declared that the cruel girl should be brought to her senses—it wasn’t probable she would ever have such another chance of becoming a countess—and marry Tousky Wousky _she should_! And off the old lady started to enforce her commands in person. Sophia Ann was not to be found. The fact was, she had just discovered that she was in want of a quantity of muslin, and knowing of no place in the city where she could procure it of a quality more to her satisfaction, she hastened to the store of Flash, Fleetwood & Co., and had a long consultation with the handsome clerk. “Never mind, Sophy dear,” said Allen, after he had heard the story of her persecutions, “I have a plan for unmasking him. Do not suppose that I have been idle since you told me of your mother’s designs.” And Sophy tripped home and listened very resignedly to a long lecture from her mother, upon the impropriety of young ladies presuming to decide for themselves upon matrimonial questions. One of the consequences of Allen’s plan ensued the very day after these events. Tousky Wousky was parading Broadway in all his magnificence. The African king, whose principal escape from nudity consisted in a gold-edged _chapeau bras_, never moved among his fellows with a more complacent feeling of superiority than Tousky Wousky experienced as he strutted across Chambers street toward the Astor House. His forehead was contracted in a superb and scornful frown—his whiskers and moustaches looked black as night—and his half-closed eyes seemed as if they deemed it an act of condescension on their part to open upon the works of the Creator. Tousky Wousky swung his cane, and looked neither to the right nor to the left, except when he bowed to some envied female acquaintance. As for that highly respectable portion of the human race, the males, the count rarely condescended to recognize their existence. He passed them by with supreme indifference. Had he known how many consultations there had been as to the propriety of knocking him down, perhaps he would have amended his conduct in this respect. On the occasion, at which my narrative had now arrived, the count was interrupted in his promenade by an individual, gaily but not fastidiously dressed, who accosted him in the most familiar manner. “Well met, Philippe!” cried the stranger, holding out his hand. “You are mistaken in the person, sir,” said Tousky Wousky, drawing himself up, and attempting to look magnificently dignified. “None of your nonsense, Philippe,” returned the stranger; “don’t you remember your old fellow-artist, Alphonse? Of course you do. Come—” “Out of the way, fellow, or I will demolish you with my cane.” “Be civil, Philippe, and acknowledge me, or I will pull off your whiskers here in Broadway.”