While she thus sat, an imposing little personage, wearing a superb Spanish cloak, flung with what may be termed graceful negligence across his shoulders, and having a highly-flavoured cigar in his teeth, consequentially ascended the cabin stairs—looked knowingly towards the mast-head—gave two or three springy struts across the after-deck—cast an aristocratical glance around the passengers—stood suddenly still—bent pryingly over the companion—stole round on tiptoe, tapped Isabella familiarly on the shoulder, and, throwing back his little body to its extreme altitude, he stretched out his parcel of white fingers, saying—“A study for a Rembrandt, by the Graces! I am a fortunate fellow in meeting you again; but didn’t know, ’pon my honour, until lately, that my friend, Sandy Hamilton, had the happiness of being acquainted with you.” “Mr Stafford,” said Isabella, “the wife of him whom you call your friend has hitherto been accustomed to plainer language.” “You are severe, my pretty paragon,” whispered the little man; “but, now that you are leaving the north country in quest of a husband, do not disfigure that lovely face with north country formality.” And, casting aside both formality and delicacy himself, with the air of a wooer who presumes more upon his own importance than the feelings of her professed to be beloved, he seated himself by her side, and, with an affected and seemingly careless playfulness, threw his arm across her shoulder. “Sir,” said Isabella, rising indignantly, “you have this moment called my husband your friend—if you are ignorant of the sacred duties of a friend, or of the respect due to my sex, and the conduct becoming a gentleman, let the misfortunes of our house be my protection.” “Protection!—creature of beauty!” said he, “I will protect you with my life! Nay, do not frown; for your anger only makes your loveliness the more provoking, and calls back the colour which your misfortunes, as you term them, are trying to banish.” “Begone, sir,” said Isabella, “practise your fooleries on those who will listen to them;” and she walked to the opposite side of the vessel, whither she was immediately followed by her unabashed tormentor. “Come, sweet one,” resumed he, “do not delight in throwing lightnings from eyes where moonbeams would blush at the presence of rivals.” “Your behaviour, sir,” said Isabella, “in any man, but especially in one bearing the rank of a gentleman, is contemptible, cowardly, and unmanly. On former occasions I have borne your insults without drawing upon you the chastisements which you merited; but you now profess to know me as the wife of your friend, and as such I claim your respect—or I shall know how to resent your conduct.” “An angel in a fury!” exclaimed the Hon. Edward Stafford, with a theatrical start. “Respect you!—why, I adore you!—worship you!—will die for you!” “Pitiable fool!” replied she, turning from him with disdain.