" 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.

"Alfred was admitted here to-night," said she, "through the influence
of his aunt, Madame la Baronne de Dorlodot; and now, having seen him,
can you not understand why I have been in such spirits all the evening,
and acted so well, and danced with such life, and why I am now happy as
a queen? Dieu! Dieu! It was such good fun to glance first at him and
then at the other, and madden them both."

"But that other--where is he? Show me Isidore."

"I don't like."

"Why not?"

"I am ashamed of him."

"For what reason?"

"Because--because" (in a whisper) "he has such--such whiskers,
orange--red--there now!"

"The murder is out," I subjoined. "Never mind, show him all the same; I
engage not to faint."

She looked round. Just then an English voice spoke behind her and me.

"You are both standing in a draught; you must leave this corridor."

"There is no draught, Dr. John," said I, turning.

"She takes cold so easily," he pursued, looking at Ginevra with extreme
kindness. "She is delicate; she must be cared for: fetch her a shawl."

"Permit me to judge for myself," said Miss Fanshawe, with hauteur. "I
want no shawl."

"Your dress is thin, you have been dancing, you are heated."

"Always preaching," retorted she; "a