he evening fell asleep just
when they were wanted, he shrugged his shoulders, and he thanked his
stars! In short, Lord Mildmay was the ladies' man; and in their morning
dearth of beaux, to adopt their unanimous expression, 'quite a host!'

Then there was archery for those who could draw a bow or point an
arrow; and we are yet to learn the sight that is more dangerous for your
bachelor to witness, or the ceremony which more perfectly develops all
that the sex would wish us to remark, than this 'old English' custom.

With all these resources, all was, of course, free and easy as the air.
Your appearance was your own act. If you liked, you might have remained,
like a monk or nun, in your cell till dinner-time, but no later. Privacy
and freedom are granted you in the morning, that you may not exhaust
your powers of pleasing before night, and that you may reserve for those
favoured hours all the new ideas that you have collected in the course
of your morning adventures.

But where was he, the hero of our tale? Fencing? Craning? Hitting?
Missing? Is he over, or is he under? Has he killed, or is he killed? for
the last is but the chance of war, and pheasants have the pleasure
of sometimes seeing as gay birds as themselves with plumage quite as
shattered. But there is no danger of the noble countenance of the Duke
of St. James bearing to-day any evidence of the exploits of himself or
his companions. His Grace was in one of his sublime fits, and did not
rise. Luigi consoled himself for the bore of this protracted attendance
by diddling the page-in-waiting at dominos.

The Duke of St. James was in one of his sublime fits. He had commenced
by thinking of May Dacre, and he ended by thinking of himself. He was
under that delicious and dreamy excitement which we experience when the
image of a lovely and beloved object begins to mix itself up with our
own intense self-love. She was the heroine rather of an indefinite
reverie than of definite romance. Instead of his own image alone playing
about his fancy, her beautiful face and springing figure intruded their
exquisite presence. He no longer mused merely on his own voice and wit:
he called up her tones of thrilling power; he imagined her in all the
triumph of her gay repartee. In his mind's eye, he clearly watched all
the graces of her existence. She moved, she gazed, she smiled. Now he
was alone, and walking with her in some rich wood, sequestered,
warm, solemn, dim, feeding on th