“My dear Mabel,” said Agatha Volney, “neither rank nor wealth would have the least effect on Sir Oscar de Bracy, for I think we ought to give him the name he is entitled to; rank or fortune would weigh nothing in the balance with honour and glory. The navy is his pride and delight.” “Be St. Patrick, you are right, Agatha!” said Captain O’Loughlin. “If you were to ask him which he would give up, wealth or profession, be the powers of war, he would say without hesitation, wealth, my beauty!” “And pray, Mr., or rather Captain O’Loughlin,” said Agatha, “if you were asked which you would give up, your profession or Miss Agatha Volney, I suppose it would be—‘Be the powers of war, you, my beauty!’” “Ah, you little deceiver!” said the Captain. “You know deuced well which way the vane would turn. Now, if my gallant young friend were once fairly caught in Cupid’s meshes, to the deuce with the profession, when that wicked deceiver hoists his flag.” “And do you pretend to tell me, most redoubtable Commander,” said Agatha, demurely, “that you were never in love before, and you in your twenty-seventh year?” “Faith, I can’t say that, fair Agatha,” said the Captain, with a smile. “You know I was six years a middy, and a mid is perpetually in love—that is, when he gets ashore, and sees a petticoat fluttering in the wind. But I must be off to London to-night; try and console Mabel, she looks very unhappy (our heroine had retired, leaving the lovers together); upon my conscience I’m afraid her little heart is beating with something more than cousinly love for my handsome friend.” “And why should you say afraid?” asked Agatha. “Is there a lovelier girl in Great Britain than Mabel? When we spent a month at my sister’s, she was the admiration of all the visitors, and at the Great Election Ball at Exeter she created universal admiration. She could if she pleased have had the choice of two coronets.” “I know that,” said Captain O’Loughlin; “and I say with you that a more beautiful or more amiable maiden there is not to be found; but you see, William—that is, Sir Oscar—I shall hail him under his right name; but as I was saying, Sir Oscar is one of the handsomest men you probably ever saw; the women are all in love with him. Whenever we get ashore, and mix in society, he cuts us all out, and you see he’s rather, I must confess, a leetle volatile—black, brown, and fair—and when I talk to him of Mabel he says, ‘I dare say she is a very nice amiable girl; but it’s preposterous to fancy myself in love with a little thing of thirteen. I love her with all my heart as a sister.’”