"You will hear me talked about with all sorts of people, Kate," said he, as we took about our twentieth turn, each of which I had protested should be _the last_; "but the world is so officious and mischief-making, you must never believe a word it says. They know I am ruined, and they choose to decide that I must be making up to some wealthy young lady. As if _I_ was a man to marry for money; as if I cared for anything on earth but _one_ person, and _that_ for the sake of her own dear self alone! You ask _me_ about Miss Molasses; you declare I am continually riding with her, and dancing with her, and what you ladies call 'paying her attention'--that yellow lackadaisical miss! Do you think I would marry her if she had half a million? Do you think I could stand those sentimental airs, that smattering of learning, and affectation of being poetical, and romantic, and blue--I, who have only lately learned what a woman should be, and what a treasure such a woman is? No, no; I have known the whole family from a child; I can't quite stand the lady part of it, but old Molasses is a right good fellow, and one must be civil to them all. No, no, Kate; with my many faults, I am a very different person from what you seem to think. I have my hopes and wishes, certainly, but----" I can't possibly go on to relate the conclusion of Frank's rhapsody, but he took great pains to convince me that if there was ever a high-principled, pure-minded, much-injured individual, that exemplary character was the gentleman now walking by my side; and I was convinced, but at the same time not exactly satisfied. In thinking over the whole of our conversation, I could gather nothing very definite, nothing that led to any particular result, from it. One thing was clear to my mind, and that was at all events a gratifying reflection. Frank did not seem to be aware that I had any worldly prospects whatever: it was evident that if he liked me he liked me entirely for myself. I confess I should not wish to be a great heiress; I should always be fancying that it was the "fine eyes of my casket," as the French say, which attracted my admirers, and I could not stand that. No, Frank was not mercenary, I was sure, and if even--why the competency I should be possessed of would be an agreeable surprise. If, indeed! Nothing was clear, nothing was settled. What a fool I was to dwell so upon an uncertainty, to anchor my hopes upon a dream! I was not at all comfortable that afternoon: the more I thought, the more I walked about my boudoir in a state of high fidget and restlessness. One thing, however, was consolatory--the frost was breaking. Already in London it was a decided thaw, and I went to pay Brilliant a visit in the stable.