ble
to derive from the discussion of my individual affairs, or the
analysis of my peculiar tastes. You forget, my dear Constance, that to
devour and in turn be devoured is an inexorable law of this world; and
if my eccentricities furnish a _ragout_ for omnivorous society, I
should be philanthropically glad that tittle-tattledom owes me
thanks."

The speaker did not lay aside the newspaper that partially concealed
his countenance; and when he ceased speaking, his eyes reverted to the
statistical table of Egyptian and Algerine cotton, which for some
moments he had been attentively examining.

"My dear brother, you are spasmodically and provokingly philosophical!
Pray do me the honor to discard that stupid _Times_, which you pore
over as if it were the last sensation novel, and be so courteous as to
look at me while you are talking," replied the invalid sister, beating
a tattoo on the side of her couch.

"I believe I have nothing to communicate just now," was the quiet and
unsatisfactory answer, as he drew a pencil from his pocket and made
some numeral annotations on the margin of the statistics.

"Surely, Merton, you are not angry with your poor Constance?"

Merton Minge lowered his paper, restored the pencil to his vest
pocket, and wheeling his chair forward, brought himself closer to the
couch.

"I wish you were as far removed from fever as I certainly am from
anger. Your eyes are too bright, my pretty one."

He put his fingers on her pulse, and when he removed them, compressed
his lips to stifle a sigh.

"Why will you so persistently evade me?--why will you always change
the subject when I allude to that young lady?"

"Because, when a man attains the sober and discreet age of forty
years, he naturally and logically thinks he has earned, and is
entitled to, an exemption from the petty teasing to which sophomores
and sentimentalists are subjected. While I gratefully appreciate the
compliment implied in your forgetfulness, permit to remind you of the
disagreeable fact that I am no longer a boy."

"You lose sight of that same ugly and ill-mannered fact, much more
frequently than I am in danger of doing; and I affectionately suggest
that you stimulate your own torpid memory. Ah, brother! why will you
not be frank, and confide in me? Women are not easily hoodwinked,
except by their lovers,--and you can not deceive me in this matter."

"What pleasure do you suppose it would afford me to practice deceit of
any k