esses and High-Mightinesses at the German spas, to say nothing of his home position, should run after her in the way he did? Had he not given her flowers? then a book—a Book of Beauty, of course—then a ring, and finally a perfumed pink paper note, an answer to which was to be conveyed in the tacit gift of the handkerchief? There would have been no want of opportunity to have given either a verbal or written response, it may be remarked, in a more usual manner; but the worth of a romantic incident with the more youthful of your sex, ladies, was not unknown to this young Alcibiades. Beside, he entertained other views—views which I shall take great pains to avoid the mention of here. Indeed, they were not expressed in the pink billet, nor even hinted at, nor were they directly referred to in any of the pink perfumed notes which followed this forerunner. But in each and all there was thenceforward a more open avowal of his passionate affection, and much reiteration of the unbounded sacrifices he would make for her, sweet Mary Jones's, sake. This, too, was the burden of most of his conversations. To do him justice, he spoke the truth here, so far as it went. It has been incidentally shown in the first pages of this history, that a gratification of any sort would be purchased by this patrician off-shoot at the cost of the whole future, if necessary; and in the present instance he certainly would not have scrupled to risk the paternal and avuncular favor and inheritance at once, rather than forego his wishes.
Perhaps, though, there might be some safer means for attaining his end. If he were so disposed to risk every thing, should not she make some sacrifice! It would be safer to delay their marriage until, at least, his uncle, the patroon, should have left him his heir—in a year, possibly, or at the end of a few months or weeks. Meanwhile, should greater delay be required by after events, or should either weary of the other——— But let us not record the musings, held in private with his segar, of this delightful young roué, whose moustache and cane, or lorgnette, we are always secretly flattered to see promenading, or at the opera, with our sisters and daughters. He was crazy with love at times, kissing over and over again a likeness of Mary he had taken from the parlor table, and he was content to be the sacrifice in the event of her refusing to be. On the whole, it is