never commit the impropriety of calling in Norfolk Street and asking to see a young gentleman, with whom they could have no earthly business, again.’ And now, unknown to Margaret, he was going to see _them_. The conscience at seventeen is tender, and it was no wonder William Henry’s smote him. At that age, however, the memory (for some things) is unfortunately short, and when a door suddenly opened from a labyrinthine passage, into a prettily furnished room, where Mrs. Jordan, reclining in an arm-chair, was reading with rapt attention a certain manuscript he recognised, he thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful before. She arose with a pleasant smile, and a natural coquettish air which became her charmingly, and bade him welcome. ‘Pray come in,’ said she, for he stood at the door entranced; ‘it is not everyone that is admitted into my dressing-room, but I shan’t bite you.’ It was not the least like a dressing-room except that it had a multiplicity of mirrors, but her calling it so discomposed him (he could not help thinking to himself how very much more, if she had but known it, it would have discomposed Margaret); his knees had a tendency to knock together, and he felt that he looked like a fool. ‘You need not be afraid,’ continued the lady smiling, not displeased perhaps to see the effect she had produced in him, the symptoms of which were not unfamiliar to her; ‘Mrs. Powell will be here directly—she is not so punctual as you are.’ ‘She has not so much reason to be, madam,’ said William Henry. The words had occurred to him as if by inspiration, but directly they were uttered he repented of them. He had intended them to be very gallant, but they now struck him as exceedingly foolish. ‘He is certainly a very amusing young man,’ said the lady, as if addressing a third person. ‘Pray sit down, sir. I saw your father after I had the pleasure of seeing you yesterday. You are not in the least alike. You should have seen Kemble and him together; it was as good as any play. They don’t hit it off together so well as you and I do. Perhaps you will say again they have not so much reason.’ ‘It was a very unfortunate remark of mine,’ said William Henry penitently. ‘I don’t know that; you needn’t be so hard upon yourself. I think you had an idea that you were somehow paying me a compliment. For my part, however, I have enough of compliments, and prefer a little honesty for a change.’ William Henry bethought him of saying something about the genuineness of some compliments, but by the expression of her face, which had suddenly become grave, he judged that she had had enough of the subject, and remained silent. ‘And how is Margaret?’ The young man blushed to the roots of his hair, and blushed the more because he felt himself blushing. ‘I have heard of the young lady from your father, and nothing but good of her. I hope’—this with great severity—’that you are not ashamed of her, sir.’ ‘No, madam.’