When Coverdale entered the drawing-room, he cast round his eyes to discover what might have become of Alice and Mr. Crane, and failing to perceive them, was about to find some excuse for making his way into the boudoir beyond, when Emily pounced upon him to entreat him to sing for the edification of some dear Mary Jane or other, who was dying to hear him; and the very identical Mary Jane herself seconding the request in a mild, insinuating, blatant tone of voice, as of some bashful but persuasive sheep, there remained nothing for him but to consent, which he did with a very ill grace indeed. Having dashed through a tender and sentimental Italian love-ditty in a ferocious, not to say sanguinary, style, he declared he was so hoarse that he could not sing another note, and again made an attempt to enter the boudoir, which he succeeded in reaching just in time to see Alice quit the room with a heightened colour, and in a manner which betokened hurry and agitation, while Mr. Crane remained gazing after her with a countenance indicative of the deepest and most helpless bewilderment. From these symptoms Harry rightly conjectured that while he had been off duty the cotton-spinner had popped; but whether his offer had been accepted or rejected he was utterly unable to divine. Mr. Crane looked stupid and puzzle-pated--but _that_ he was sure to do in any case. For the rest of the evening Coverdale was in a fearful state of mind; people stayed late, and it seemed to him as if everybody had entered into a league to worry and torment him. First, the young lady who had sat next him at dinner got at him again, and flirted at him so violently, that (his thoughts running entirely on marrying and giving in marriage) he became possessed of a nervous dread lest she should be going to make him an offer--this idea gaining confirmation from its suddenly occurring to him that it was Leap-year, he grew desperate, and pretending that Emily had made him promise to sing again, astonished that damsel by crossing over to inform her that his hoarseness had entirely departed, and that he should have the greatest pleasure in favouring her friend with the song she had wished to hear; for which piece of inconsistency Emily bestowed upon him a glance so penetrating and satirical, that he longed to box her pretty pert little ears for it. When the song was over, Knighton emerged from behind a broad old lady, somebody’s mother-in-law, very far gone in Curaçoa, which she concealed behind a pious zeal for clothing the female natives of Barelyaragon (an unknown island, discovered by Juan de Chuzacruz in the sixteenth century, and forgotten ever since) in the cast-off garments of the Bluecoat-School boys. The moment Knighton got clear of this philanthropic elder he pounced upon Coverdale, and carrying him off to a recess, then and there related to him an additional episode in his amatory career, which was not of the slightest