“What a fiasco I have made, _Carlo mio_,” said he, “and all from not understanding the nature of these creatures, who have never seen a sunset south of the Alps. I know how little sympathy any fellow meets with from you, if he be only unlucky. I have your face before me,--your eyebrows on the top of your forehead, and your nether lip quivering with malicious drollery, as you cry out, '_Ma perche? perche? perche?_' And I'll tell you why: because I believed that she had hauled down her colors, and there was no need to continue firing. “Of course you'll say, '_Meno male_,' resume the action. But it won't do, Signor Conte, it won't do. She is not like one of your hardened coquettes on the banks of the Arno or the slopes of Castellamare, who think no more of a declaration of love than an invitation to dinner; nor have the slightest difficulty in making the same excuse to either,--a pre-engagement. She is English, or worse again, far worse,--Irish. “I 'd give--I don't know what I would n't give--that I could recall that stupid speech. I declare I think it is this fearful language has done it all. One can no more employ the Anglo-Saxon tongue for a matter of delicate treatment, than one could paint a miniature with a hearth-brush. What a pleasant coinage for cajolery are the liquid lies of the sweet South, where you can lisp duplicity, and seem never to hurt the Decalogue.” As he had written so far, a noisy summons at his door aroused him; while the old Commodore's voice called out, “Maitland! Maitland! I want a word with you.” Maitland opened the door, and without speaking, returned to the fire, standing with his back to it, and his hands carelessly stuck in his pockets. “I thought I 'd come over and have a cigar with you here, and a glass of brandy-and-water,” said Graham. “They 're hard at it yonder, with harp and piano, and, except holystoning a deck, I don't know its equal.” “I 'm the more sorry for your misfortune, Commodore, that I am unable to alleviate it I 'm deep in correspondence just now, as you see there, and have a quantity more to do before bedtime.” “Put it aside, put it aside; never write by candlelight. It ruins the eyes; and yours are not so young as they were ten years ago.” “The observation is undeniable,” said Maitland, stiffly. “You're six-and-thirty? well, five-and-thirty, I take it.” “I 'm ashamed to say I cannot satisfy your curiosity on so natural a subject of inquiry.” “Sally says forty,” said he, in a whisper, as though the remark required caution. “Her notion is that you dye your whiskers; but Beck's idea is that you look older than you are.” “I scarcely know to which of the young ladies I owe my deeper acknowledgments,” said Maitland, bowing. “You're a favorite with both; and if it hadn't been for the very decided preference you showed, I tell you frankly they 'd have been tearing caps about you ere this.” “This flattery overwhelms me; and all the more that it is quite unexpected.”