"Oh yes," said Selden, "and he stoutly denies having ever sighed to you, Fenella; and talks a deal of nonsense about friendship, as though such a feeling ever existed between a lad of nineteen and a lady under twenty-five." "Upon that subject," replied Fenella, "we can at least keep our own counsel." "Come, Cleaveland," said I, "we are bound in the same direction. I have a few words to say to you, and if you are at leisure we will walk." "I hope I have not driven you away," said Selden. "Pshaw! I am not so easily driven." Tea was over, and Cleaveland and I rose to depart. Fenella accompanied us to the door, and said to me in a monitory tone: "Now, Pertinax, be careful what you do in relation to the caricature. Keep out of difficulty with Mc----. You cannot be of any service to me in that affair, and may injure yourself by your interference. I know your disposition to serve me; but I also know that your impetuosity is more likely to involve you in difficulty than to bring me out of it. Be cautious, I beseech you." "Do not be alarmed," said I, somewhat piqued, "my _indifference_ will be my protection." "I do not believe that, nor do I believe that you are indifferent to my feelings; and the caution I now give you is a proof that I do not think so." A pressure of the hand was my only reply to this conciliatory speech; and we left the house. It was early in the evening, and quite dark, as we mounted the ice in the middle of the street, preferring the risk of being run down by _traineaus_ or _carioles_, on that narrow pass, to stumbling against steps, cellar doors, and other obstructions on the _trottoir_ of an avenue, feebly lighted by here and there a dim and solitary lamp. We pursued our way down St. Paul's street, and in passing the shop where "Timothy Crop, Fashionable Hair Dresser and Perruquier," shone in gilt letters, illuminated by a lamp, a glance shewed us two copies of Fenella's effigy, displayed with most provoking prominence in a bow-window, which was brilliantly lighted. "Curses on that fellow," said I. "Is there no way in which this nuisance can be prevented? You are fertile in schemes, Cleaveland; cannot you contrive some plan, if not to stop the issue of these libels, to revenge the insult offered to our friend?" "Not I indeed, unless we hire _Felix Sans Pitié_[1] to thump the artist, or get _Piquet_,[2] the retired bully, to break his right arm."