"Madam," said I, "what must any gentleman think when he sees youth, beauty, and innocence in distress? I wish I could tell you that I was old enough to be your father; I think we must give that up," I continued, with a smile. "But I will tell you something about myself which ought to do as well, and to set that little heart at rest in my society. I am a lover. May I say it of myself--for I am not quite used to all the niceties of English--that I am a true lover? There is one whom I admire, adore, obey; she is no less good than she is beautiful; if she were here, she would take you to her arms: conceive that she has sent me--that she has said to me, 'Go, be her knight!'" "O, I know she must be sweet, I know she must be worthy of you!" cried the little lady. "She would never forget female decorum--nor make the terrible _erratum_ I've done!" And at this she lifted up her voice and wept. This did not forward matters: it was in vain that I begged her to be more composed and to tell me a plain, consecutive tale of her misadventures; but she continued instead to pour forth the most extraordinary mixture of the correct school miss and the poor untutored little piece of womanhood in a false position--of engrafted pedantry and incoherent nature. "I am certain it must have been judicial blindness," she sobbed. "I can't think how I didn't see it, but I didn't; and he isn't, is he? And then a curtain rose.... O, what a moment was that! But I knew at once that _you were_; you had but to appear from your carriage, and I knew it. O, she must be a fortunate young lady! And I have no fear with you, none--a perfect confidence." "Madam," said I, "a gentleman." "That's what I mean--a gentleman," she exclaimed. "And he--and that--_he_ isn't. O, how shall I dare meet father!" And disclosing to me her tear-stained face, and opening her arms with a tragic gesture: "And I am quite disgraced before all the young ladies, my school-companions!" she added. "O, not so bad as that!" I cried. "Come, come, you exaggerate, my dear Miss ----? Excuse me if I am too familiar: I have not yet heard your name." "My name is Dorothy Greensleeves, sir: why should I conceal it? I fear it will only serve to point an adage to future generations, and I had meant so differently! There was no young female in the county more emulous to be thought well of than I. And what a fall was there! O, dear me, what a wicked, piggish donkey of a girl I have made of myself, to be sure! And there is no hope! O, Mr.----" And at that she paused and asked my name. I am not writing my eulogium for the Academy; I will admit it was unpardonably imbecile, but I told it her. If you had been there--and seen her, ravishingly pretty and little, a baby in years and mind--and heard her talking like a book, with so much of schoolroom propriety in her manner, with such an innocent despair in the matter--you would probably have told her yours. She repeated it after me.