_Pulito._ “Indeed, I have, and bring quite a message from him, which, but for your suggestion, I should have forgotten. By my troth, in my head, ‘_dies truditur die_,’--one idea thrusts out another. But for the story--I met Apple walking most abstractedly with the huge roll of his autobiography under his arm. When I asked him what he was thinking about, he obstinately confined his information to the mysterious remark that he was ‘_coming up_’ this evening. As soon, however, as he discovered that I did not intend to be there, he unfolded his whole purpose--under an express injunction of secrecy, which I ought to keep, and which I will keep--though I will give you an inkling of it, as it may afford you some sport. He will probably appear particularly brilliant, and converse more like himself, his peculiar self. Verb. sat sap. Make fun of him if you can, for I owe him a grudge for a spiteful pun, which he made on a lady’s name. However, my masters, after I have given my neck-kerchief the blameless tie, and curled my hair with the twist extatic, I will leave you to your dull coffee, and bask me in the warmth of thy sunny eyes, oh beautiful *---- *----.” Here Pulito made his exit, singing “di tutti palpiti,” with an air of Cox-comical affectation, half assumed, half natural. _Tristo._ “A handsome fellow, and a bright. But the day will come when a strong mind, and a well-stored memory, will be worth more than the vanished rapture of a woman’s smile. What a pity youth can never temper pleasure with----, hist! that stumbling step sounds like Apple’s.” _Nescio._ “’Tis his,--let’s slip into the bed-room and see what Dumpling will do.” _Tristo._ “Agreed; I promise myself materiel for laughter.”