I blundered out some platitude of a compliment to her eyes—the fullest and most lovely blue that ever man gazed into—at which she smiled as if pleased, and continued, “Now, Mr. Lorrequer, I have really been longing for your coming; for your friends of the 4—th are doubtless very dashing, spirited young gentlemen, perfectly versed in war’s alarms; but pardon me if I say that a more wretched company of strolling wretches never graced a barn. Now, come, don’t be angry, but let me proceed. Like all amateur people, they have the happy knack in distributing the characters—to put every man in his most unsuitable position—and then that poor dear thing Curzon—I hope he’s not a friend of yours—by some dire fatality always plays the lover’s parts, ha! ha! ha! True, I assure you, so that if you had not been announced as coming this week, I should have left them and gone off to Bath.” Here she rose and adjusted her brown ringlets at the glass, giving me ample time to admire one of the most perfect figures I ever beheld. She was most becomingly dressed, and betrayed a foot and ancle which for symmetry and “chaussure,” might have challenged the Rue Rivoli itself to match it. My first thought was poor Curzon; my second, happy and trice fortunate Harry Lorrequer. There was no time, however, for indulgence in such very pardonable gratulation; so I at once proceeded “pour faire l’aimable,” to profess my utter inability to do justice to her undoubted talents, but slyly added, “that in the love making part of the matter she should never be able to discover that I was not in earnest.” We chatted then gaily for upwards of an hour, until the arrival of her friend’s carriage was announced, when, tendering me most graciously her hand, she smiled benignly and saying “au revoir, donc,” drove off. As I stood upon the steps of the hotel, viewing her “out of the visible horizon,” I was joined by Curzon, who evidently, from his self-satisfied air, and jaunty gait, little knew how he stood in the fair Fanny’s estimation. “Very pretty, very pretty, indeed, deeper and deeper still,” cried he, alluding to my most courteous salutation as the carriage rounded the corner, and its lovely occupant kissed her hand once more. “I say Harry, my friend, you don’t think that was meant for you, I should hope?” “What! the kiss of the hand? Yes, faith, but I do.” “Well, certainly that is good! why, man, she just saw me coming up that instant. She and I—we understand each other—never mind, don’t be cross—no fault of yours, you know.” “Ah, so she is taken with you,” said I. “Eh, Charley?”