“Oh, then you would have me turn fortune-hunter, and, under cover of your friendship and introduction, aim at some heiress, and bring her down, and so secure wealth?” “Set fire to you, _no_! Whom do you take me for? Do you think that _I_ would present an adventurer to Southern creoles? _No, sir!_ But I _do_ want you to fall in love with a Southern beauty, and fortune would follow, of course.” “I do not see it at all. There are several links wanting in that chain of reasoning. But, apropos of beauty, love, and marriage. Tell me something more of Miss Sutherland, _votre belle fiancée_.” “India! listen, you.” And he took Lauderdale’s arm, and turned to walk up and down the room for a confidential chat. “Listen, you! I named her just now over the wine. I regret to have done so. Would it were undone! But so it is; in some moment of excitement a word passes our lips, and it is unrecallable forever. She is so sacred to my heart, so divine to my soul! I often wonder if Helen of Argos were half as beautiful as she—my India.” “What a strange, charming name that is for a woman!” “Is it not? But, rich, luxurious, and gorgeous, in its associations, too—(and that is why it was given to her) it suits her. She is India. Her mother was like her—a beautiful, passionate Havanienne, rich in genius, poetry, song—luxuriating in the beautiful creations of others, yet far too indolent to create. More than all, she lost herself amid the oriental elysiums of Moore, and thence she named her only daughter Hinda. And as the maiden budded and bloomed into womanhood—well, yes, I believe, after all, it was I who softened down her name to India. It has the same derivation, it is the same name, in fact. Oh! and it suits her.” “Describe your nonpareil to me.” “I cannot. By my soul’s idolatry, I cannot. The best of beauty—the charm, the soul, the divine of beauty—can never be described or painted. It is spiritual, and can only be perceived.” “Humph! is she fair?” “No—yet radiant.” “Dark?” “No—yet shadowy.” “Is she tall?” “No.” “Short?” “No, no; nonsense!” “What, neither tall nor short? Perhaps she is of medium height.” “I do not know. I cannot tell, indeed. But oh! she is beautiful—she is glorious! My lady, my queen!” “To come to something tangible, what is the colour of her eyes?” “Oh! what is the colour of love, or joy, or heaven? for as soon could I tell you the colour of these as of her witching eyes. I only know they have light, softly thrilling all the chords of life, like music; and shadows, calming my spirit, like silence.” “Well, I admit the hue of beautiful eyes to be a mysterious point; but hair, now, is a little more certain in that respect. Tell me the hue of your lady’s tresses.” “I cannot. I only know they are rich, warm, and lustrous.” “Humph! satisfactory portrait that. Oh! here is Flamingo. Come, Flame, and tell me what is the colour of your young mistress’s hair.”