“Oaths!” I stammered. But what use reasoning with a woman who manifestly was not in possession of her reason? I considered that I had been already a great deal too condescending. I had forgotten my dignity, and provoked a most audacious snubbing by an amiability that was totally at variance with those high and splendid conceptions which had hitherto characterised my self-estimates. No wonder my aunt had guessed that I would not like Teazer. “Teazer!” That was a dog’s name, and it suited my cousin to perfection. But did she behave to everybody as she behaved to me? Impossible. She wouldn’t have a friend. Perhaps she hadn’t. Perhaps her temper and gross manners were the real cause of her father’s retired life; and yet, hadn’t I heard from somebody or other that she had had admirers, and received even an offer of marriage from an individual whose name figured in Debrett’s List? Nonsense! this must have been said merely to put me in conceit with the girl, and set me on the high road to courtship. Why, the cook down-stairs could teach her better manners than she had. It was a great pity. I felt sorry for her. She was, undeniably, good-looking; her eyes magnificent--splendid contradictions to her character. Watching her, when she was silent, I could have sworn, had I not known the truth about her nature, that she really possessed the profound passions and fine qualities her father strangely found in her. Though she threw her arms and legs about in the wildest search after inelegance, the utmost uncouthness of posture could scarcely deform or even qualify the inexpressible suggestions of grace with which her noble form was full fraught. Her father came in with his hearty smile, and I envied him the affectionate glance he received from her. How was it that she could never look at me without a sneer or a frown? What was there in me to challenge her contempt? If there was one thing I used to pique myself upon more than another, it was my success with the ladies. At Longueville I was always in request. No picnic was planned, no ball or open-air _fête_ given, in which my name was not conspicuous. I shall not be accused of blabbing, if I modestly assert that, on Valentine’s Day, I would receive as many as twenty letters, many of which were original poetry: and, on New Years’ Day, was I ever forgotten by Eugenie, by Sophie, by Marie, or by Celestine? Teazer was my St. Helena. What satisfaction in recalling my victories, the loving sighs and ogles that attended my gilded progress, now that my charms were exiled and lodged upon a barren rock?