“Well, you’re a handsome couple anyway,” pursued the mercurial Wentworth, surveying them with an air of bland admiration—genuine admiration, too, mixed with his affectation of it. “As for Emily, she’s just what Muriel calls her—the gorgeous queen-rose of Ispahan. But you, Harrington—what have you been doing to yourself? I never saw you look so finely in my life. Walter Raleigh—the beautiful and tall Sir Walter—must have looked like you, though I don’t believe he looked so well.” Emily, leaning on Harrington’s arm, looked up into his face, and saw that what Wentworth said was true. A change had fallen upon the masculine bearded countenance—a fine rapture lit its regular features—a faint color lessened its pallor, and the pure blue eyes swam in brilliance. “Indeed, Richard, you are right,” said Emily. “He looks as beautiful as the sun-god.” “Exactly. ‘Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself’”— “Oh, come now,” interrupted Harrington, blushing. “Is this a meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society? You pair of gross flatterers! Praising my personal pulchritude to my face in this way! But do I look well? No wonder. Last night I slept the sleep of the blessed, and to-day I am happy. You know why. Ah! and you haven’t given me joy yet! Yes, and I, too, haven’t given you joy.” “We know why? Given you joy? Why, what do you mean, John?” cried Emily. “Hasn’t Muriel told you?” said Harrington. “No,” cried Emily, breathlessly; but Wentworth saw what was coming, and a slow flush crept over his illumined face. “Muriel and I plighted troth last night,” said Harrington, simply. Wentworth flew across the room with a shout, and with the utmost deliberation began to dance. Emily dropped Harrington’s arm, stood for a moment pale, with her hands to her bosom, glowed into bright color again, and burst into tears. “Oh, John!” she cried, springing back a pace, and seizing his hands, with a smile flashing splendid through the glittering rain on her impassioned face. “Oh, I am so happy! Joy, joy to you! I never dreamed of it—never! Joy, joy, joy!” She wrung his hands in an ecstasy of delight, while Wentworth, breaking from his dance, came flying across the room, and over a chair that stood in his way, and clutching away the right hand from Emily, shook it as if he meant to shake it off, his face flushed and his lip quivering, and his congratulations breaking from his lips like wildfire. “Everlasting cornucopias of happiness poured out upon you both for countless quadrillions of never-dying eternities!” he hallooed. “By the Capitolian Jove, John, but I’m too glad to say a syllable. Don’t ask me to give you joy, for there’s not enough words in the beggarly English language for me to do it with! Oh, thunder! if this is not the tip-top crown and summit of it all, then I’m a Dutchman!” He burst away, panting, and hurling himself at full length upon a couch, burst into a ringing peal of jubilant laughter.