"I asked Argyle," Tom Sheridan proceeded, "how he had addressed his last letters to you? 'To the post office in Somers-town,' was his answer, 'and thence they were forwarded to Harriette.'" (He had tried to bribe the old woman there, to obtain my address, but she abused him, and turned him out of her shop.) "'It is very hard,'" continued Tom, repeating the words of his noble friend, "'to lose the good-will of one of the nicest, cleverest girls I ever met with in my life, who was, I am certain, civilly if not kindly disposed towards me, by such a mere accident.' Therefore," continued Tom Sheridan, smiling, "you'll make it up with Lorne, won't you?" "There is nothing to forgive," said I, "if no slight was meant. In short you are making too much of me, and spoiling me, by all this explanation; for, indeed, I had at first been less indignant, but that I fancied his grace neglected me because----" and I hesitated, while I could feel myself blush deeply. "Because what?" asked Tom Sheridan. "Nothing;" I replied, looking at my shoes. "What a pretty girl you are," observed Sheridan, "particularly when you blush." "Fiddlestick!" said I, laughing, "you know you always preferred my sister Fanny." "Well," replied Tom, "there I plead guilty. Fanny is the sweetest creature on earth; but you are all a race of finished coquettes, who delight in making fools of people. "Now can anything come up to your vanity in writing to Lorne, that you are the most beautiful creature on earth?" "Never mind," said I, "you set all that to rights. I was never vain in your society, in my life." "I would give the world for a kiss, at this moment," said Tom; "because you look so humble, and so amiable; but"--recollecting himself--"this is not exactly the embassy I came upon. Have you a mind to give Lorne an agreeable surprise?" "I don't know." "Upon my honour I believe he is downright in love with you." "Well?" "Come into a hackney-coach with me, and we will drive down to the Tennis Court, in the Haymarket." "Is the duke there?" "Yes." "But at all events, I will not trust myself in a hackney-coach with you." "There was a time," said poor Tom Sheridan, with much drollery of expression, "there was a time--but now!" and he shook his handsome head with comic gravity, "but now! you may drive with me from here to St. Paul's in the most perfect safety. I will tell you a secret," added he, and he fixed his fine dark eye on my face while he spoke, in a tone, half merry, half desponding, "I am dying; but nobody knows it yet!" I was very much affected by his manner of saying this. "My dear Mr. Sheridan," said I, with earnest warmth, "you have accused me of being vain of the little beauty God has given me. Now I would give it all, or upon my word I think I would, to obtain the certainty, that you would from this hour refrain from such excesses as are destroying you."