a morning call. While I stood thus in despair,
conversing with a trio of friends upon the all absorbing subject of my
heart, it so happened that the subject itself passed by.

"As I live, there she is!" cried one.

"Surprisingly beautiful!" exclaimed a second.

"An angel upon earth!" ejaculated a third.

I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing slowly
down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera, accompanied by
the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her box.

"Her companion also wears remarkably well," said the one of my trio who
had spoken first.

"Astonishingly," said the second; "still quite a brilliant air, but art
will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than she did at
Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;--don't you think so,
Froissart?--Simpson, I mean."

"Still!" said I, "and why shouldn't she be? But compared with her friend
she is as a rush--light to the evening star--a glow--worm to Antares.

"Ha! ha! ha!--why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making
discoveries--original ones, I mean." And here we separated, while one
of the trio began humming a gay vaudeville, of which I caught only the
lines--

Ninon, Ninon, Ninon a bas--

A bas Ninon De L'Enclos!

During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly to
console me, although it fed the passion by which I was consumed. As the
carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group, I had observed that
she recognized me; and more than this, she had blessed me, by the
most seraphic of all imaginable smiles, with no equivocal mark of the
recognition.

As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it until
such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the country. In
the meantime I perseveringly frequented every reputable place of public
amusement; and, at length, at the theatre, where I first saw her, I had
the supreme bliss of meeting her, and of exchanging glances with her
once again. This did not occur, however, until the lapse of a fortnight.
Every day, in the interim, I had inquired for Talbot at his hotel, and
every day had been thrown into a spasm of wrath by the everlasting "Not
come home yet" of his footman.

Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition little
short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a Parisian--had
lately arrived from Paris--might she not suddenly return?--return before
Talbot came back--and might