riend, and she who sat, or rather reclined,
(for such a luxurious, languishing attitude can hardly be called a
sitting posture.) fairy-like, in the hinder part of the shell, bestowed
upon him a very gracious, condescending smile. She was a most imposing
creature,--in freshness of complexion, in physical development, and,
above all, in amplitude and magnificence of attire, a full-blown rose of
a woman,--aged, I should say, about forty.

"Don't you know that turn-out?" said Herbert, as the shallop with its
lovely freight floated on in the current.

"I am not so fortunate," I replied.

"Good gracious! miserable man! Where do you live? In what obscure
society have you buried yourself? Not to know MADAM WALDOBOROUGH'S
CARRIAGE!"

This was spoken in a tone of humorous extravagance which piqued my
curiosity. Behind the ostentatious deference with which he had raised
his hat to the sky, beneath the respectful awe with which he spoke the
lady's name, I detected irony and a spirit of mischief.

"Who is Madam Waldoborough? and what about her carriage?"

"Who is Madam Waldoborough?" echoed Herbert, with mock astonishment;
"that an American, six months in Paris, should ask that question! An
American woman, and a woman of fortune, sir; and, which is more, of
fashion; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in
Messina or elsewhere;--one that occupies a position, go to! and receives
on Thursday evenings, go to! and that hath ambassadors at her table, and
everything handsome about her! And as for her carriage," he continued,
coming down from his Dogberrian strain of eloquence, "it is the very
identical carriage which I didn't ride in once!"

"How was that?"

"I'll tell you; for it was a curious adventure, and as it was a very
useful lesson to me, so you may take warning by my experience, and, if
ever she invites you to ride with her, as she did me, beware! beware!
her flashing eyes, her floating hair!--do not accept, or, before
accepting, take Iago's advice, and put money in your purse: PUT MONEY IN
YOUR PURSE! I'll tell you why.

"But, in the first place, I must explain how I came to be without money
in mine, so soon after arriving in Paris, where so much of the article
is necessary. My woes all arise from vanity. That is the rock, that is
the quicksand, that is the maelstrom. I presume you don't know anybody
else who is afflicted with that complaint? If you do, I'll but teach you
how to tell my story, and that