“No!” and saying this, Gadsby took up a book and sat down, with a dogged, resolute air. “Well, I must be off. _Au revoir._” No sooner did the door close after his friend, than, throwing away the book, Gadsby started up, exclaiming: “No! this syren—this coquette—this all fascinating woman, as she is called, shall find I am not so easily made her dupe! She is a perfect mistress of art, that is certain; for who that did not know her would think the light of her beautiful eyes shone only to deceive—they are heavenly! Who would think that sweet, gentle smile which she sometimes wears, and the soft, witching tones of her voice were but superficial. In outward appearance she is a type of all that is most perfect in woman; and if this beauty of mind and person but extended to the heart—ah, I dare not think of it! I am told she considers me a vain, conceited fellow—ha! ha! she shall find yet that I am not what I have appeared, and that this vain, conceited fellow, has at least wit enough to see through and despise her arts. What a beautiful morning for the ride. I was foolish not to go; besides, she may think—no matter what she thinks. But then I would not be uncivil; as I accepted the invitation, I should have gone. I wish I had. Let me see, it is now ten o’clock; perhaps I may yet be in time. Yes, I will show her that I can meet her fascinations unmoved, and leave her without one sigh of regret—heigh, ho!” And Mr. Gadsby ended his soliloquy by catching up the broom-brush and rapidly applying it to his shoulders and arms, and then with a glance at the small looking-glass, he seized his hat, and rushing down stairs, swiftly thridded his way through the crowd until he reached the residence of Miss Laurence, whence the party were to set forth. Running up the steps, he rang the bell. Much to his mortification he learned the party had been gone about ten minutes, and he was turning from the door, when the servant added, “Miss Laurence is at home—will you walk in, sir?” Then she had not gone! Strange!—no, he would not go in; but perhaps he had better, and apologize for his apparent rudeness. Yes, he would go in; and following the servant, he was ushered into the drawing-room. Sending up his card, Gadsby sat down to await the entrance of the lady. Opposite the sofa on which he reclined hung the full length portrait of Miss Laurence—the work of the unfortunate young painter whom love of her had driven from his native land. It was a beautiful creation of art, but not more beautiful than the fair original herself. There was grace, dignity, and repose in the attitude, harmonizing so perfectly with the sweet expression of the features. The eyes of Gadsby were soon riveted upon it, and rising from his seat, he approached nearer, and remained standing before it, lost in contemplating its loveliness. “Charming girl!” he exclaimed inadvertently aloud; “but false as thou art charming!”