“Indeed, Charlotte,” replied Lucia, in a saddened tone, “I had no idea James Fairlie really loved me until too late. He painted so exquisitely that, at my father’s request, he was engaged to paint my portrait. I believe I gave him a lock of my hair, and allowed him to retain a small miniature which he had sketched of me; but, as I told him, when he so unexpectedly declared his love, I meant nothing.” “Ah, Lucia,” said her friend, reproachfully, “and did you mean nothing when you allowed the visits of Colonel W——?” “O, the gallant Colonel! Excuse me Charlotte—a pair of epaulettes answer very well, sometimes, in place of a heart. The Colonel’s uniform was a taking escort through the fashionable promenades; and, then, he was so vain that it did one good to see him lose the ‘bold front of Mars’ in the soft blandishments of Cupid; and not forgetting, even when on his knees, to note, in an opposite mirror, the irresistible effect of his gallant form at the feet of a fair lady! So far, I think, I have supported my ground against your accusation of coquetry,” added Lucia. “On the contrary, my dear Lucia, I am sorry to say that you have but proved its truth,” answered Charlotte. “Sorry, because there is, to my mind, no character so vain and heartless as that of a coquette, and I would not that any one whom I love should rest under such an imputation. The moment a woman stoops to coquetry she loses the charm of modesty and frankness, and renders herself unworthy the pure affection of any noble-minded man. It betrays vanity, a want of self-respect, and an utter disregard for the feelings of others. A coquette is a purely selfish being, who, by her hollow smiles and heartless professions, wins to the shrine of her vanity many an honest heart, and then casts it from her as idly as a child the plaything of which he has tired. She is unworthy the name of woman.” “Hollow smiles—heartless professions! Why, what is all this tirade about, Charlotte?” interrupted Lucia, indignantly. “I do not understand you. You surely do not mean to class me with those frivolous beings you have named.” “It will do for young coxcombs and fops,” continued Charlotte, “whose brains centre in an elegant moustache or the tie of a cravat, who swear pretty little oaths, and can handle their quizzing glass with more skill than their pen—it will do for them to inflate their vanity by the sighs of romantic school-girls; but for a high-minded, noble woman, like you, Lucia, to descend from the dignity of your position to the contemptible artifices of a coquette—fie, Lucia, be yourself.” “From no other but you, Charlotte,” she replied, “would I bear the unjust imputation you cast upon me, and I should blush did I think myself deserving one half your censure. I do not feel that I have descended at all from the ‘dignity of my position,’ as you are pleased to term it, and consider a coquette quite as contemptible as you do.” “Ah, Lucia,” said Charlotte, archly,