“Let me hear you.” The little haughty command was delightful. I went at once and dashed into a piece of dance-music; then looked up, thinking it was Conny who stood near, but found it was my aunt. “You have a charming touch, Mr. Charles,” said she. “Of course you sing.” Of course I didn’t. She wouldn’t believe me, so conquering and clever did she consider her nephew. I dropped my assurances to the contrary after a little, being perfectly satisfied to be included in the rank of those who have honour thrust upon them, and went up to Conny and asked her to play. “You would much rather smoke a cigar with papa than listen.” “Before I grow eloquent,” said I, with a smile, “I should like to know if I may call you Constance?” “Oh, I believe cousins are privileged.” “And after I have called you Constance a few times, just for form’s sake, may I address you as Conny?” “Call me what you please,” she replied, with the loveliest flush of pink in her fair cheeks. “Then,” said I, “Constance, so far from wishing to smoke, I would be perfectly content to give up that habit for ever, if you would but consent to play the piano to me, every time a longing came across me for a cigar.” “That’s a little story,” she said in a whisper. Oh! what lovely eyes! oh, what glorious hair! Come, Pauline, come quickly, and snatch me from this peril! Or, since Pauline has grown too fat to come quickly, rise ye recollections of defeat and humiliation, of rage and despair, and steel my heart against the bewildering memories that make it languish as I write. “It is solemn truth,” said I. Whereupon she went to the piano, and played “Il segréto per esse felice,” whilst mamma kept time with her head, and papa warbled an accompaniment at the other end of the room. “I wonder if it is too cold to smoke a cigar out of doors,” said my uncle, opening one of the windows and thrusting his hand out to test the temperature. “Oh yes, much too cold, I am sure. Why can’t you and Mr. Charles smoke in the library? We’ll keep you company,” observed my aunt. “Very well,” answered my uncle. “Charlie, I hope you won’t mind the ladies joining us?” Mind! oh irony, where is thy sting? And this was a house I durst not live in, for fear I shouldn’t be allowed to have my liberty! This was a house where smoking was forbidden! Where “Emma” and “Cœlebs” were read aloud, whilst Miss tatted! Where lights were put out at a quarter before ten! Dolt! numskull! but it was too late: my honour was involved; my dignity was at stake! my importance must not be tarnished. I had said I would go into lodgings, and there was an end.