“It does not become you to laugh at him,” says Sylvia, who never fails to defend her admirer—when he is absent. “Because collars and cravats are of no importance to you, and Nature has curled your hair so that it looks better disordered than any other way, is no reason for making game of more fastidious and less fortunate persons.” “I am not making game of him,” says Charley, “though, by Jove! if I tried— however, it does not matter.—Alice, I want you to witness something which this young lady promised me last night.” “Very well,” I answer placidly. I am on one side of the chimney and Charley on the other, while Sylvia stands on top. The rest have disappeared—Eric, Mr. Burnet, and Rupert, on thoughts of breakfast intent. I am more interested in the far, blue peaks of the Unaka, and the distant range of the Cumberland, than in any thing Sylvia may have promised, but I am ready to be obliging, so I say, “Very well.” “Now, Charley,” says that young lady, in a warning tone, “mind you tell the truth.” “I always do,” replies Charley, virtuously. “Well, Alice, you know that she has been in the habit of treating me with—well, I desire to be moderate, so I will say, a great want of consideration.” “You know, Alice,” says Sylvia, “that I was obliged to keep him in his place—else what would become of him?” “Query, what is my place?” asks Charley. “At your feet?” “A very good place,” she remarks, coolly. “You might find many worse. Please don’t let me _fall_—Oh!” Charley restores her to her proper balance, and then turns again to me. “Regarding this fact,” he says, “together with the corresponding fact that I have never been in love with any woman but herself, not even for a day in all my life—” “_What_ a story!” says the person on the chimney. “Charley, you ought to be ashamed! You never dared to tell me such an untruth! I should at once have reminded you of Sue Collins and Adèle Dupont, not to speak of Miss Hollis—” “That is nonsense,” says Charley. “If we began to talk of flirtations, I could bring forward a list of _your_ amusements that would double mine.” “A woman has a right to flirt” (dogmatically). “Oh! has she?” (skeptically). “That is a right I never heard claimed before— though it is certainly well practised. All this is straying from the subject, however.—The long and short of the matter is, Alice, that she promised last night to think of me, and I want you to stand witness to the fact.” “Why should I do anything of the kind?” I ask. “Are you foolish enough to fancy that ‘thinking of you’ means anything more than giving you a sop to keep you quiet? You ought to know Sylvia better after all these years.” “Oh, how shameful!” cries Sylvia. “To slander me in that manner, and to talk of ‘all these years,’ as if I were thirty-five!”