For some days Mr. Somers seemed to feel put upon his reputation to sustain the character of gallant, _savant, connoisseur_, etc.., which every one who makes the tour of the continent is expected to bring home as a matter of course; for there is seldom a young gentleman who knows he has qualifications in this line, who can resist the temptation of showing what he can do. Accordingly he discussed tragedies, and reviews, and ancient and modern customs with Miss Emma; and with Miss Isabella retouched her drawings and exhibited his own; sported the most choice and _recherche_ style of compliment at every turn, and, in short, flattered himself, perhaps justly, that he was playing the irresistible in a manner quite equal to that of his fair cousins. Now, all this while Miss Fanny was mistaken in one point, for Mr. George Somers, though an exceedingly fine gentleman, had, after all, quite a substratum of reality about him, of real heart, real feeling, and real opinion of his own; and the consequence was, that when tired of the effort of _conversing_ he really longed to find somebody to _talk_ to; and in this mood he one evening strolled into the library, leaving the gay party in the drawing room to themselves. Miss Fanny was there, quite intent upon a book of selections from the old English poets. "Really, Miss Fanny," said Mr. Somers, "you are very sparing of the favor of your company to us this evening." "O, I presume my company is not much missed," said Fanny, with a smile. "You must have a poor opinion of our taste, then," said Mr. Somers. "Come, come, Mr. Somers," replied Fanny, "you forget the person you are talking to; it is not at all necessary for you to compliment me; nobody ever does--so you may feel relieved of that trouble." "Nobody ever does, Miss Fanny; pray, how is that?" "Because I'm not the sort of person to say such things to." "And pray, what sort of person ought one to be, in order to have such things said?" replied Mr. Somers. "Why, like Sister Isabella, or like Emma. You understand I am a sort of little nobody; if any one wastes fine words on me, I never know what to make of them." "And pray, what must one say to you?" said Mr. Somers, quite amused. "Why, what they really think and really feel; and I am always puzzled by any thing else." Accordingly, about a half an hour afterwards, you might have seen the much admired Mr. Somers once more transformed into the Cousin George, and he and Fanny engaged in a very interesting _tete-a-tete_ about old times and things. Now, you may skip across a fortnight from this evening, and then look in at the same old library, just as the setting sun is looking in at its western window, and you will see Fanny sitting back a little in the shadow, with one straggling ray of light illuminating her pure childish face, and she is looking up at Mr. George Somers, as if in some sudden perplexity; and, dear me, if we are not mistaken, our young gentleman is blushing.