I saw him this evening. I have not yet had an opportunity to tell you that he endeavoured to make himself very agreeable to me three days ago, when he met me, as I was returning to Great Porter Square from the post-office. He promised to make me a present of some acid drops, of which he seems to be very fond. He did not keep his word until this evening, when he presented me with a sweet little packet, which I put into the fire when I was alone. He spoke of his property and his expectations. "I wish," said he, as he offered me the sweets, "that this paper was filled with diamonds; it would be--a--more agreeable. But I am poor, miserably poor--as yet. It will be one day that I shall be rich--then shall I present myself to you, and offer to you what I better wish." "Why should you do so?" I asked. "You are a gentleman, although you have no money----" "Ah, yes," he said, interrupting me, and placing his hand on his heart, "I am a gentleman. I thank you." "And," I continued, "I am so much beneath you." "Never," he said, energetically; "I have said to you before, you are a lady. Think you I do not know a lady when she presents herself? It is not station--it is not birth--it is not rank. It is manner. On my honour I say it--you are a lady." I gave him a sharp look, doubtful for a moment whether he was in earnest; but the false ring in his false voice should of itself have convinced me that he was as insincere as it was possible for any human being to be. "It is," he said, with a wave of his hand towards the Square, "still excitement. People still come to look and see. What do they expect?" "I suppose," I said, "it is because of that wonderful account in the newspaper about the poor gentleman who was murdered. Did you read it?" "Did I read it!" he echoed. "I was the first. It is what you say--wonderful. What think you of the lady with the pretty name--I forget it--remind me of it." "Lydia," I said. "Ah, yes, Lydia. It is a pretty name--remarkable." ("Then," thought I, following his words and manner with close attention, "if you think the name so pretty and remarkable, how comes it that you forget it so soon?" But I did not say this aloud.) "What think you of her?" "I think she is to be pitied," I said; "it was a dreadful story she told the reporter. It is like a romance." "A romance," he said, "is something that is not true?" "It _must_ be true," I said. "Do you suppose any person--especially a lady, as Mrs. Holdfast is--could possibly say what is not true, in such a position as hers?" "It is not--a--possible," he replied. "You are right. What say the people? As you say?" "They can say nothing else. What object could she have to serve in speaking anything but the truth? Her husband is dead; that wicked young man--what was his name?" I asked, serving him in his own coin. "Frederick," he said, quickly.