"Well, then," continued Lucinda, changing her tone, "here is the prudential mode. Mr. Gordon Fitzsimmons, thinking it probable (though I speak advisedly) that you may have no objection to change your condition, and believing (though perhaps I may be mistaken) that we are tolerably well suited to each other--I being my own mistress, and you being your own master--perceiving no great disparity of age, or incompatibility of temper--" "I like not this mode either," interrupted Fitzsimmons; "it is worse than the other." "Do you think so?" resumed Lucinda. "It is just the way a rich old fellow courted me last winter." "Nothing is more likely," said Fitzsimmons. "But neither of these modes will succeed with me." "Then," observed the Colonel, "there is nothing left but the plain downright." "Mr. Fitzsimmons, will you marry me?" said Lucinda. "With all my heart and soul," replied Fitzsimmons, taking her hand. "Oh! you forget yourself," exclaimed Lucinda, struggling to withdraw it. "You are not half so good a comedian as I am. You should look down, and play with your guard-chain; and then look up, and tell me you are perfectly happy in your single state--that marriage is a lottery--that our acquaintance has been too slight for either of us to form a correct opinion of the other. In short, you should say _no_." "By heavens!" exclaimed Fitzsimmons, kissing her beautiful hand; "I cannot say no--even in jest." Lucinda's first sensation was involuntary delight. But in a moment she was startled by the conviction that she had unthinkingly gone too far. The native delicacy of woman thrilled every nerve in her frame, and her cheeks varied alternately from red to pale. Shocked at the length to which she had inadvertently carried a dialogue begun in _badinage_, and confused, mortified, and distressed at its result, she forcibly disengaged her hand from that of Fitzsimmons, and turning to a lady and gentleman that she saw passing, she said she would accompany them to the other end of the room. Arrived there, she seated herself in the midst of a group that were warmly engaged in discussing the comparative merits of Spanish dances and Polish dances: and she endeavoured to collect her scattered thoughts, and compose the flutter of her spirits. But it was in vain--the more she reflected on the little scene that had just taken place, the more she regretted it. "What must Fitzsimmons think of me?" was her predominant idea. "His gallantry as a gentleman prompted his reply, but still how sadly I must have sunk in his opinion! That I should have allowed myself to be drawn into such a conversation! That I should have carried a foolish jest so far! But I will punish myself severely. I will expiate my folly by avoiding all farther intercourse with Gordon Fitzsimmons; and from this night we must become strangers to each other."