“He has not come up from the servants’ hall yet. But what upon earth ails you?—fatigued with your exertions, or borne down under the weight of your laurels—which? You look, at once, as weary and as triumphant as ‘a warrior who putteth off his armor.’ What is it?” inquired Montressor. Dazzleright threw himself into a chair, exclaiming— “Oh! these women! these women!” “What women?” “These fine ladies! It is a weariness of the soul to try to entertain them for one evening!” “Ah! and now I look at you more closely, it is not triumphant but desperate that you look.” “I am just a little excited! and if some of these are not taken away to-morrow morning, I shall elope!—that is all!” exclaimed Dazzleright, drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiping his heated brow. “With whom?” coolly inquired Lord Montressor. “Montressor, don’t aggravate my symptoms! I am in a considerable state of nervous excitement.” “The truth is, that you suffer from what the French wittily call the ‘embarrassment of riches.’ You do not know how to choose between the fair Lady Jane or Mary Chappelle, and the pretty Mrs. Bute Trevor. “Where are my pistols? If I had them at hand I might do something indiscreet—the ladies Chappel and Mrs. Bute Trevor! two inane, characterless girls, and a flat, spiritless widow! I had as leave wed one of Madame Tousaud’s wax images as either.” “You are severe; they are what are called ‘harmoniously developed women,’” answered Lord Montressor, with the least possible of quiet humor. “Then, in the name of all life, give me monsters!” broke forth Dazzleright, with energy. “Bah—bah—bah—bah—they are as like each other, and as like all their class, as peas in a pod. I beg the peas pardon—peas have life——these women are as uniform, as dull, as dead, and as heavy as leaden bullets from the same mould; with no more originality, individuality, life, power than the leaden balls aforesaid! By my soul, they are so uniform, that each should be ticketed with her name, that we may know her from her fellows.” “Chut! you have received a flat from Lady Jane or Mary Chappelle,” laughed Lord Montressor. “_I_ received a flat! No! and I never shall from any fine lady. I have been trying to entertain a score of flats, that’s it.” “You will marry Mrs. Bute Trevor, yet,” persisted Lord Montressor. “I’ll marry an Indian squaw. Civilized women are degenerated—besides, being so much alike that I can’t tell one from another!” exclaimed Dazzleright, bouncing out of the room. The next day was the Sabbath, and the family and their visitors attended Divine service at the little Gothic chapel outside the park gate. On Monday Lord Dazzleright put his threat in execution and rather than spend another evening in the arduous and unprofitable labor of trying to leaven lead, took leave of his friends and departed, telling no one the fact that imperative business called him back to town.