“Really, sir, if I regard your conduct as only absurd, it is a favorable view of it,” said she, angrily. “Do, darling of my soul! light of my eyes! loadstar of my whole destiny!--do take a favorable view of it,” said he, catching at her last words. “I have certainly given you no pretence to make me ridiculous, sir,” said she, indignantly. “Ridiculous! ridiculous!” cried he, in utter amazement. “Sure it's my hand I 'm offering you. What were you thinking of?” “I believe I apprehend you aright, sir, and have only to say, that, however honored by your proposal, it is one I must decline.” “Would n't you tell me why, darling? Would n't you say your reasons, my angel? Don't shake your head, my adored creature, but turn this way, and say, 'Gorman, your affection touches me: I see your love for me; but I 'm afraid of you: you 're light and fickle and inconstant; you 're spoiled by flattery among the women, and deference and respect amongst the men. What can I hope from a nature so pampered?'” “No, in good truth, Mr. O'Shea, not one of these objections have occurred to me; my answer was dictated by much narrower and more selfish considerations. At all events, sir, it is final; and I need only appeal to your sense of good-breeding never to resume a subject I have told you is distasteful to me.” And with a heightened color, and a glance which certainly betokened no softness, she turned away and left him. “Distasteful! distasteful!” muttered he over her last words. “Women! women! women! there's no knowing ye--the devil a bit! What you 'd like, and what you would n't is as great a secret as the philosopher's stone! Heigho!” sighed he, as he opened his cravat, and drew in a long breath. “I did n't take a canter like that, these five years, and it has sent all the blood to my head. I hope she 'll not mention it. I hope she won't tell it to the widow,” muttered he, as he walked to the window for air. “_She's_ the one would take her own fun out of it. Upon my conscience, this is mighty like apoplexy,” said he, as, sitting down, he fanned himself with a book. “Poor Mr. O'Shea!” said a soft voice; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Morris, as, leaning over the back of his chair, she bent on him a look half quizzical and half compassionate. “Poor Mr. O'Shea!” “Why so? How?” asked he, with an affected jocularity. “Well,” said she, with a faint sigh, “you 're not the first man has drawn a blank in the lottery.” “I suppose not,” muttered he, half sulkily. “Nor will it prevent you trying your luck another time,” said she, in the same tone. “What did she say? How did she mention it?” whispered he, confidentially. “She did n't believe you were serious at first; she thought it a jest. Why did you fall on your knees? it's never done now, except on the stage.” “How did I know that?” cried he, peevishly. “One ought to be proposing every day of the week to keep up with the fashions.”