The sight of Miss Lavinia slightly removed the wrathful expression, and Mr. Rushton contented himself with bestowing a dreadful scowl on Roundjacket, which that gentleman returned, and then counteracted by an amiable smile. Miss Lavinia greeted the lawyer with grave dignity, and said she had come in, in passing, to consult him about some little matters which she wished him to arrange for her; and trusted that she found him disengaged. This was said with so much dignity, that Mr. Rushton could not scowl, and so he invited Miss Lavinia to enter his sanctum, politely leading the way. The lady sailed after him--and the door closed. No sooner had she disappeared, than Mr. Roundjacket seized his ruler, for a moment abandoned, and proceeded to execute innumerable flourishes toward the adjoining room, for what precise purpose does not very accurately appear. In the middle of this ceremony, however, and just as his reflections were about to shape themselves into words, the front door opened, and Verty made his appearance, joyful and smiling. In his hand Verty carried his old battered violin; at his heels stalked the grave and dignified Longears. "Good morning, Mr. Roundjacket," said Verty, smiling; "how do you do to-day?" "Moderate, moderate, young man," said the gentleman addressed; "you seem, however, to be at the summit of human felicity." "_Anan_?" "Don't you know what _felicity_ means, you young savage?" "No, sir." "It means bliss." Verty laughed. "What is that?" he said. Mr. Roundjacket flourished his ruler, indignantly. "Astonishing how dull you are occasionally for such a bright fellow," he said; "but, after the fashion of all ignoramuses, and as you don't know what that is, I declare you to be one after the old fashion. You need illustration. Now, listen." Verty sat down tuning his violin, and looking at Mr. Roundjacket, with a smile. "Felicity and bliss are things which spring from poetry and women; convertible terms, you savage, but often dissevered. Suppose, now, you wrote a great poem, and read it to the lady of your affections, and she said it was better than the Iliad of Homer,--how would you feel, sir?" "I don't know," Verty said. "You would feel happiness, sir." "I don't think I would understand her. Who was Iliad, and what was Homer?" Mr. Roundjacket flourished his ruler, despairingly. "You'll never write a poem, and you'll never be in love!" he said, with solemn emphasis. "Oh, you are wrong!" said Verty, laying his violin on the desk, and caressing Longears. "I think I'm in love now, Mr. Roundjacket!" "What?" "I'm in love." "With whom?" "Redbud," said Verty. Roundjacket looked at the young man. "Redbud Summers?" he said. Verty nodded. Roundjacket's face was suddenly illuminated with a smile; and he looked more intently still at Verty. "Tell me all about it," he said, with the interest of a lover himself; "have you had any moonlight, any flowers, music, and that sort of things?"