"It is a great pity she is engaged to Mr. Breeze," said Miss Austin; and Pinckney woke up with a start, for he was thinking of Miss Warneld too. "Why?" said he. "I don't like him," said Emily. "He isn't good enough for her." As this is a thing that women say of all wooers after they have won, and which the winner is usually at that period the first to admit, Pinckney paid little attention to this remark. But that evening he met Miles Breeze, saw him, talked with him, and heard others talk of him. A handsome man, physically; well made, well dressed, well fed; well bred, as breeding goes in dogs or horses; a good shot, a good sportsman, yachtsman, story-teller; a good fellow, with a weak mouth; a man of good old Maryland blood, yet red and healthy, who had come there in his yacht and had his horses sent by sea. A well-appointed man, in short; provided amply with the conveniences of fashionable life. A man of good family, good fortune, good health, good sense, good nature, whom it were hypercritical to charge with lack of soul. "The first duty of a gentleman is to be a good animal," and Miles Breeze performed it thoroughly. Pinckney liked him, and he could have been his companion for years and still have liked him, except as a husband for Miss Warfield. He could not but recognize his excellence as a _parti_. But the race of Joan of Arc does not mate with Bon-homme Richard, even when he owns the next farm. Pinckney used to watch the crease of Breeze's neck, above the collar, and curse. Coming upon Miss Austin one morning, she had said, "Come--I want to introduce you to Miss War-field." Pinckney had demurred, and offered as an excuse that he was smoking. "Nonsense, Charles," said the girl; "I have told her you are coming." Pinckney threw away his cigar and followed, and the presentation was made. Miss Warfield drew herself almost unusually erect after courtesying, as if in protest at having to bow at all. She was so tall that, as Emily stood between them, he could meet Miss War-field's iron-gray eyes above her head. It was the first time in Pinckney's life that he had consciously not known what to say. "I was so anxious to have you meet Charles before he left," said Emily. Evidently, his fiancee had been expatiating upon him to this new friend, and if there is anything that puts a man in a foolish position it is to have this sort of preamble precede an acquaintance. "An anxiety I duly shared, Miss Warfield, I assure you," said he; which was a truth spoiled in the uttering--what the conversational Frenchman terms _banale_.