Well! it must be confessed that a man desperately in love (as I fear I must own I then was, and a good deal cut up by Glorvina’s conduct) is a most selfish being: whilst women are so soft and unselfish that they can forget or disguise their own sorrows for awhile, whilst they minister to a friend in affliction. I did not see, though I talked with her daily, on my return from that accursed Dublin, that my little Elizabeth was pale and _distraite_, and sad, and silent. She would sit quite dumb whilst I chattered, her hands between her knees, or draw one of them over her eyes. She would say, “Oh, yes! Poor fellow--poor fellow!” now and again, as giving a melancholy confirmation of my dismal stories; but mostly she remained quiet, her head drooping towards the ground, a hand to her chin, her feet to the fender. I was one day harping on the usual string. I was telling Elizabeth how, after presents had been accepted, after letters had passed between us (if her scrawl could be called letters, if my impassioned song could be so construed), after everything but the actual word had passed our lips--I was telling Elizabeth how, on one accursed day, Glorvina’s mother greeted me on my arrival in M-rr-n Square, by saying, “Dear--dear Mr. Batchelor, we look on you quite as one of the family! Congratulate me--congratulate my child! Dear Tom has got his appointment as Recorder of Tobago; and it is to be a match between him and his cousin Glory.” “His cousin _What!_” I shriek with a maniac laugh. “My poor Glorvina! Sure the children have been fond of each other ever since they could speak. I knew your kind heart would be the first to rejoice in their happiness!” And so, say I--ending the story--I, who thought myself loved, was left without a pang of pity: I, who could mention a hundred reasons why I thought Glorvina well disposed to me, was told she regarded me as an _uncle_! Were her letters such as nieces write? Whoever heard of an uncle walking round Merrion Square for hours of a rainy night, and looking up to a bedroom window, because his _niece_, forsooth, was behind it? I had set my whole heart on the cast, and this was the return I got for it. For months she cajoles me--her eyes follow me, her cursed smiles welcome and fascinate me, and at a moment, at the beck of another--she laughs at me and leaves me! At this, my little pale Elizabeth, still hanging down, cries, “Oh, the villain! the villain!” and sobs so that you might have thought her little heart would break. “Nay,” said I, “my dear, Mr. O’Dowd is no villain. His uncle, Sir Hector, was as gallant an old officer as any in the service. His aunt was a Molloy, of Molloy’s Town, and they are of excellent family, though, I believe, of embarrassed circumstances; and young Tom----” “_Tom?_” cries Elizabeth, with a pale, bewildered look. “_His name wasn’t Tom_, dear Mr. Batchelor; _his name was Woo-woo-illiam_!” and the tears begin again.