It was but a little party at Mr. Robbie’s—by which, I do not so much mean that there were few people, for the rooms were crowded, as that there was very little attempted to entertain them. In one apartment there were tables set out, where the elders were solemnly engaged upon whist; in the other and larger one, a great number of youth of both sexes entertained themselves languidly, the ladies sitting upon chairs to be courted, the gentlemen standing about in various attitudes of insinuation or indifference. Conversation appeared the sole resource, except in so far as it was modified by a number of keepsakes and annuals which lay dispersed upon the tables, and of which the young beaux displayed the illustrations to the ladies. Mr. Robbie himself was customarily in the card-room; only now and again, when he cut out, he made an incursion among the young folks, and rolled about jovially from one to another, the very picture of the general uncle. It chanced that Flora had met Mr. Robbie in the course of the afternoon. ‘Now, Miss Flora,’ he had said, ‘come early, for I have a Phoenix to show you—one Mr. Ducie, a new client of mine that, I vow, I have fallen in love with’; and he was so good as to add a word or two on my appearance, from which Flora conceived a suspicion of the truth. She had come to the party, in consequence, on the knife-edge of anticipation and alarm; had chosen a place by the door, where I found her, on my arrival, surrounded by a posse of vapid youths; and, when I drew near, sprang up to meet me in the most natural manner in the world, and, obviously, with a prepared form of words. ‘How do you do, Mr. Ducie?’ she said. ‘It is quite an age since I have seen you!’ ‘I have much to tell you, Miss Gilchrist,’ I replied. ‘May I sit down?’ For the artful girl, by sitting near the door, and the judicious use of her shawl, had contrived to keep a chair empty by her side. She made room for me, as a matter of course, and the youths had the discretion to melt before us. As soon as I was once seated her fan flew out, and she whispered behind it: ‘Are you mad?’ ‘Madly in love,’ I replied; ‘but in no other sense.’ ‘I have no patience! You cannot understand what I am suffering!’ she said. ‘What are you to say to Ronald, to Major Chevenix, to my aunt?’ Your aunt?’ I cried, with a start. ‘_Peccavi_! is she here?’ ‘She is in the card-room at whist,’ said Flora. ‘Where she will probably stay all the evening?’ I suggested. ‘She may,’ she admitted; ‘she generally does!’ ‘Well, then, I must avoid the card-room,’ said I, ‘which is very much what I had counted upon doing. I did not come here to play cards, but to contemplate a certain young lady to my heart’s content—if it can ever be contented!—and to tell her some good news.’ ‘But there are still Ronald and the Major!’ she persisted. ‘They are not card-room fixtures! Ronald will be coming and going. And as for Mr. Chevenix, he—’