“Just because I am not clever, and that is all _you_ think of. Nobody in the world but you cares for cleverness.” “On the contrary, I consider you _are_ clever, in your way—very smart indeed. But you were talking of breaking hearts—that edifying amusement into the merits of which I don’t quite enter; pray on whom does your vanity lead you to think you have done execution to-night?” She approached her lips to my ear—“Isidore and Alfred de Hamal are both here,” she whispered. “Oh! they are? I should like to see them.” “There’s a dear creature! your curiosity is roused at last. Follow me, I will point them out.” She proudly led the way—“But you cannot see them well from the classes,” said she, turning, “Madame keeps them too far off. Let us cross the garden, enter by the corridor, and get close to them behind: we shall be scolded if we are seen, but never mind.” For once, I did not mind. Through the garden we went—penetrated into the corridor by a quiet private entrance, and approaching the _carré_, yet keeping in the corridor shade, commanded a near view of the band of “jeunes gens.” I believe I could have picked out the conquering de Hamal even undirected. He was a straight-nosed, very correct-featured little dandy. I say _little_ dandy, though he was not beneath the middle standard in stature; but his lineaments were small, and so were his hands and feet; and he was pretty and smooth, and as trim as a doll: so nicely dressed, so nicely curled, so booted and gloved and cravated—he was charming indeed. I said so. “What, a dear personage!” cried I, and commended Ginevra’s taste warmly; and asked her what she thought de Hamal might have done with the precious fragments of that heart she had broken—whether he kept them in a scent-vial, and conserved them in otto of roses? I observed, too, with deep rapture of approbation, that the colonel’s hands were scarce larger than Miss Fanshawe’s own, and suggested that this circumstance might be convenient, as he could wear her gloves at a pinch. On his dear curls, I told her I doated: and as to his low, Grecian brow, and exquisite classic headpiece, I confessed I had no language to do such perfections justice. “And if he were your lover?” suggested the cruelly exultant Ginevra. “Oh! heavens, what bliss!” said I; “but do not be inhuman, Miss Fanshawe: to put such thoughts into my head is like showing poor outcast Cain a far, glimpse of Paradise.” “You like him, then?” “As I like sweets, and jams, and comfits, and conservatory flowers.” Ginevra admired my taste, for all these things were her adoration; she could then readily credit that they were mine too. “Now for Isidore,” I went on. I own I felt still more curious to see him than his rival; but Ginevra was absorbed in the latter.