same.

Indeed, I absolutely out-Hornered Horner; and, had anybody detected me when engaged in the mysteries of the dressing-room, I would certainly have been supposed to have been as anxiously considerate respecting the choice I should make between light trousers and dark, a black coat and a blue one, and whether I would wear a white waistcoat or not, as a young lady costuming herself for a ball, and debating with her maid the rival merits of blush roses and pink silk, or of white tarlatan and clematis.

It was, also, some time ere I could summon up enough resolution to knock at the door of Mrs Clyde’s residence, when, my decorative preparations accomplished, I at length succeeded in getting round to her house.

The expedition strangely reminded me of a visit I was once forced to pay to a dentist, owing to the misdeeds of one of my best molars; the dread of the impending interview almost inducing me to turn back on the threshold and put off my painful purpose for a while—even as had been my course of procedure when calling at Signor Odonto’s agonising establishment. On that occasion, I remember, I recoiled in fright from the dreaded ordeal, seeking refuge in “instant flight.”

I could not do so now, however. I had promised Min to speak to her mother as soon as possible; and, independently of that engagement, the interview would have to be gone through sooner or later, at all hazards. “An’ it were done quickly, it were well done;” so, at last, my hesitation passed away under the influence of this, really vital, consideration. I nerved myself up to the knocking point. I gave a loud rat, tat, tat! that thrilled through my very boots, causing a passing butcher’s boy, awed by its important sound, to inquire, with the cynical empressement of his race, whether I thought myself the “Emperoar of Rooshia.” I turned my back on him with contempt; but, his ribald remark made me feel all the more nervous.

“Mrs Clyde at home?” I asked of the handmaiden, who answered my summons.

Yes, Mrs Clyde was at home.

Would I walk in?

I would; and did.

So far, all was plain sailing:—now, came the tug of war.

Mrs Clyde was standing up, facing the door, as I entered the drawing-room into which the handmaiden had ushered me.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr Lorton?” she said, politely.

She never forgot her good breeding; and, I verily believe, if it had ever been her lot to officiate in Calcraft’s place, she would have asked the culprit, whom she was about to hasten on his way to “kingdom come,” whether he found the fatal noose too tight, or comfortable and easy, around his doomed neck! She would do this, too, I’m sure, with the most charming solicitude possible!

I noticed of her, that, whenever she was bent on using her sharpest weapons—of “society’s” armoury and, methinks, the devil’s forge-mark!—she always put on an extra gloss of politeness over her normal smooth and varnished style of address.

I didn’t like it, either.

Civility may be all very well in its way, but I cannot say that I admire that way of knocking a man down with a kid glove. It is a treacherous mode of attack; and very much resembles the plan Mr Chucks, the boatswain in Peter Simple, used to adopt when correcting the ship’s boys.

That gentleman would, if you recollect, courteously beckon an offender to approach him, doffing his hat the while as if speaking to the quarter-deck; and then, begging the trembling youngster’s pardon for detaining him, would proceed to inform him in the “politest and most genteel manner in the world” that he was “the d—d son of a sea cook,”—subsequently rattaning him furiously, amidst a plethora of expletives before which the worst Billingsgate faded into insignificance.

I may be singular in the fancy, but, do you know, I prefer civil words to be accompanied with civil deeds, and contrariwise:—the “poison of asps” does not go well with honied accents!

“Pray take a seat, Mr Lorton,” said Mrs Clyde. “I was expecting you to call; and waited in, on purpose not to miss seeing you. My daughter has told me,”—she went on, taking the initiative, ere I had a chance to speak—cutting the ground from under my feet, as it were, and rendering my task each moment more arduous—“My daughter has told me that she and you were talking some nonsense together last night, which it is best for all parties, my dear Mr Lorton, should be at once forgotten! You’ll agree with me, I’m sure?”

And she looked at me with a steady gaze of determination and set purpose in her eyes, before which I quailed.

“You will agree with me, I’m sure, Mr Lorton,”—she repeated again, after a pause, as I was so bewildered by her flank attack that I could not get out a word at first. I declare to you, I only sat looking at her in hopeless dismay, powerless—idiotic, in fact!

“But I love Min, Mrs Clyde,”—I stammered—“and she has promised—”

“Dear me! This is quite delicious,” laughed Mrs Clyde—a cold sneering laugh, which made me shiver as if cold water were running down my back—“quite a comedy, I do declare, Mr Lorton. I did not think you were so good an actor. Love! Ha, ha, ha!” and she gave forth a merry peal—to my intense enjoyment, you may be sure.

Oh, yes! I enjoyed it, without doubt:—it was dreadfully comical!

“It is no laughing matter to me, Mrs Clyde,” I replied at last, emboldened by her ridicule—“I love Min; and she has promised to marry me, if you will only give your consent, which I have come to ask to-day.”

I got up as I spoke, and faced her.

I was prepared to do battle till the death. Desperation had now made me brave.

“Now, do let us be serious,” said the lady, presently.

She apparently found it difficult to stifle her laughter at the humour of the whole thing:—it was really such a very good joke!

“I am serious, Mrs Clyde,” I said, half-petulantly, although I tried to be impressive. I was solemn enough over it all; but, my temper has always been, unfortunately for me, too easily provoked.

“I never heard of such a thing in my life,” she continued, taking no notice, apparently, either of me or of my answer. “Fancy, any sane person talking of love and marriage between a boy and girl like that! You must be joking, Mr Lorton. Really, it is too absurd to be credible!” and she affected a laugh again, in her provoking way.

A capital joke, wasn’t it?

“I am not joking, I assure you, Mrs Clyde,” I answered sturdily, endeavouring, vainly, to bear down her raillery by my gravity. “I was never more serious in my life. I’m not a boy, Mrs Clyde; and I’m sure Min is old enough to know her own mind, too!”

This was an impertinent addendum on my part; and, my opponent quickly retorted, with a thrust, which recalled my good manners.

“You are very good to say so, Mr Lorton; but permit me to judge best in that matter! Pray, how old are you, Mr Lorton, if I may be allowed to ask the question?”—she said, looking at me with great “society” interest, as if she were examining a specimen of the extinct dodo.

“Three-and-twenty,” I said sententiously, like a catechumen responding to the questions supposed to be addressed to “N or M.”

“Dear me!” she ejaculated in seeming surprise. “Three—and—twenty? I really would not have thought it! I wouldn’t have taken you to be more than eighteen at the outside!”

She hit me on my tenderest point. I looked young for my age; and, like most young fellows, before time teaches them wisdom, making them strive to disguise the effect of each additional lustrum, I felt sore always when supposed to be more youthful than I actually was. I was, consequently, nettled at her remarks. She saw this, and smiled in amusement.

“I am twenty-three, however, Mrs Clyde, I assure you,” I said warmly; “old enough to get married,