A pleasant spring morning found Frank Gadsby—where? Not promenading Chestnut street—not lounging upon the steps of a fashionable hotel, nor whispering smooth flatteries in the ear of beauty; but positively up those three flights of stairs, in that gloomy back room dignified by the name of study. Several books were open before him, and papers—promising, business-like looking papers, with red tapes and huge seals—were scattered around him. Indeed, the very man himself had a more promising, business-like appearance; there was less of the dandy, more of the gentleman, and the look of self-complacency lost in a more serious, thoughtful expression. As I said before, Mr. Gadsby had talents, hidden beneath the mask of frippery, which needed but some impetus to bring into power, and this impetus seemed now to have been supplied. For three months the fashionable world had wondered why so often its most brilliant ornament had been missing from its gay gatherings; nor, perhaps, wondered more than Mr. Gadsby himself at his own sudden distaste for those pursuits which had but lately afforded him so much pleasure. Perhaps the remonstrances of his friend Walton had awakened him to a sense of the unprofitable life he was leading; but, as we have more to do with effects than causes, at present, we will not pursue the inquiry. For some time, perhaps half an hour, Gadsby steadily applied himself to his studies—now turning over the pages of a folio, now lost in deep thought, and then rapidly transferring his conclusions to paper. At length, with a sigh of relief, as if he had mastered some complicated problem of the law, he pushed books and papers from him, and, rising from the table, walked back and forth the narrow limits of his study. “Are you ready?” said Clarence Walton, unceremoniously opening the door. “I believe I shall not go. Make my excuses, if you please, to the ladies,” replied Gadsby, slightly embarrassed. “Not go! Why, what has come over you, man? The party are now only waiting your presence to start. What will Miss Laurence think? It will never do to slight her invitation in this way. Come!” “No!” answered Gadsby. “Say what you please for me to Miss Laurence; if she chooses to take offense, it matters but little to me. The frowns of one whose smiles are so general, are easily borne. I hope you will have a pleasant ride.” “But what new freak is this? Last night you were in fine spirits for the excursion, and I am sure you received the invitation of Miss Laurence with undisguised pleasure.” “Think so? Well, I have altered my mind—that’s all,” said Gadsby, carelessly. “Ah-ha! Are your wings scorched, that you thus shun the presence of the irresistible Lucia?” “Cannot a man of business absent himself from the society of a flirt, without giving a reason, Walton?” said Gadsby, tartly. “A man of business! Good—excellent! I will report that weighty concerns of the law interfere with your engagements. You wont go, then?”