_should_ be riding in the Phœnix Park near the _Long Milestone_, about 2, my sister and I will be in the car, and,” &c.; or, “Oh, you kind man! the tickets (she called it _tickuts_--by heaven! she did) were too welcome, and the _bouquays_ too lovely” (this word, I saw, had been operated on with a penknife. I found no faults, not even in her spelling--then); or--never mind what more. But more of this _puling_, of this _humbug_, of this _bad spelling_, of this infernal jilting, swindling, heartless hypocrisy (all her mother’s doing, I own; for until he _got his place_, my rival was not so well received as I was)--more of this RUBBISH, I say, I showed Elizabeth, and she pitied me! She used to come to me day after day, and I used to talk to her. She used not to say much. Perhaps she did not listen; but I did not care for that. On--and on--and on I would go with my prate about my passion, my wrongs, and despair; and untiring as my complaints were, still more constant was my little hearer’s compassion. Mamma’s shrill voice would come to put an end to our conversation, and she would rise up with an “Oh, bother!” and go away: but the next day the good girl was sure to come to me again, when we would have another repetition of our tragedy. I daresay you are beginning to suppose (what, after all, is a very common case, and certainly _no conjuror_ is wanted to make the guess) that out of all this crying and sentimentality, which a soft-hearted old fool of a man poured out to a young girl--out of all this whimpering and pity, something which is said to be akin to pity might arise. But in this, my good madam, you are utterly wrong. Some people have the small-pox twice, _I do not_. In my case, if a heart is broke, it’s broke: if a flower is withered, it’s withered. If I choose to put my grief in a ridiculous light, why not? Why do you suppose I am going to make a tragedy of such an old, used-up, battered, stale, vulgar, trivial, every-day subject as a jilt who plays with a man’s passion, and laughs at him, and leaves him? Tragedy indeed! Oh, yes! poison--black-edged note-paper--Waterloo Bridge--one more unfortunate, and so forth! No: if she goes, let her go!--_si celeres quatit pennas_, I puff the what-d’ye-call away! But I’ll have no _tragedy_, mind you!