is Grimsby's scrawl—only three lines, the sulky dog! He doesn't say much, to be sure, but his very silence implies more than all the other's words, and the less he says, the more he thinks—G— d—n him!—I beg your pardon, dearest—and this is Hargrave's missive. He is particularly grieved at me, because, forsooth, he had fallen in love with you from his sister's reports, and meant to have married you himself, as soon as he had sown his wild oats."
"I'm vastly obliged to him," observed I.
"And so am I," said he. "And look at this. This is Hattersley's—every page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable complaints, ending up with swearing that he'll get married himself in revenge: he'll throw himself away on the first old maid that chooses to set her cap at him,—as if I cared what he did with himself."
"Well," said I, "if you do give up your intimacy with these men, I don't think you will have much cause to regret the loss of their
