"What will not our enemies say of us, Miss Plumer?" "You have no enemies," replied she, "except, perhaps--no, I'll not mention them." "Who? who? I insist," said Abel, looking at Grace Plumer earnestly for a moment, then dropping his eyes upon her very pretty and very be-ringed white hands, where the eyes lingered a little and worshipped in the most evident manner. "Except, then, your own sex," said the little Louisianian, half blushing. "I do them no harm," replied Abel. "No; but you make them jealous." "Jealous of what?" returned the young man, in a lower tone, and more seriously. "Oh! it's only of--of--of--of what I hear from the girls," said Grace, fluttering a little, as she remembered the conservatory at Mrs. Boniface Newt's, which also Abel had not forgotten. "And what do you hear, Miss Grace?" he asked, in pure music. Grace blushed, and laughed. "Oh! only of your success with poor, feeble women," said she. "I have no success with women," returned Abel Newt, in a half-serious way, and in his most melodious voice. "Women are naturally generous. They appreciate and acknowledge an honest admiration, even when it is only honest." "Only honest! What more could it be, Mr. Newt?" "It might be eloquent. It might be fascinating and irresistible. Even when a man does not really admire, his eloquence makes him dangerous. If, when he truly admires, he were also eloquent, he would be irresistible. There is no victory like that. I should envy Alexander nothing and Napoleon nothing if I thought I could really conquer one woman's heart. My very consciousness of the worth of the prize paralyzes my efforts. It is musty, but it is true, that fools rush in where angels fear to tread." He sat silent, gazing abstractedly at the two lovely feet of Miss Grace Plumer, with an air that implied how far his mind had wandered in their conversation from any merely personal considerations. Miss Grace Plumer had not made as much progress as Mr. Newt since their last meeting. Abel Newt seemed to her the handsomest fellow she had ever seen. What he had said both piqued and pleased her. It pleased her because it piqued her. "Women are naturally noble," he continued, in a low, rippling voice. "If they see that a man sincerely admires them they forgive him, although he can not say so. Yes, and a woman who really loves a man forgives him every thing." He was looking at her hands, which lay white, and warm, and glittering in her lap. She was silent. "What a superb ruby, Miss Grace! It might be a dew-drop from a pomegranate in Paradise." She smiled at the extravagant conceit, while he took her hand as he spoke, and admired the ring. The white, warm hand remained passive in his. "Let me come nearer to Paradise," he said, half-abstractedly, as if he were following his own thoughts, and he pressed his lips to the fingers upon which the ruby gleamed.