ir Greek of the Isles, or a dark-eyed maiden of the Nile? Is our
heroine a captive behind a Spanish jalousie, or in an Italian convent?'

'Women ever believe that all moods and tempers of man are consequences
of their influence,' replied Walstein, 'and in general they are right.'

'But in your case?'

'Very wrong.'

'I am determined to find it out,' said Madame de Schulembourg.

'I wish to heaven you could,' said Baron de Walstein.

'I think a wandering life has spoiled you,' said Caroline. 'I think it
must be civilisation that you find wearisome.'

'That would be very sublime,' replied Walstein. 'But I assure you,
if there be one thing that disgusts me more than another, it is the
anticipation of renewed travel! I have seen all that I wish, and more
than I ever expected. All that I could experience now would be exertion
without excitement, a dreadful doom. If I am not to experience pleasure,
let me at least have the refuge of repose. The magic of change of scene
is with me exhausted. If I am to live, I do not think that I could be
tempted to quit this city; sometimes I think, scarcely even my house.'

'I see how it is,' exclaimed Madame de Schulembourg, shaking her head
very knowingly, 'you must marry.'

'The last resource of feminine fancy!' exclaimed Walstein, almost
laughing. 'You would lessen my melancholy, I suppose, on the principle
of the division of gloom. I can assure you, my dear Madame de
Schulembourg,' he continued, in a very serious tone, 'that, with
my present sensations, I should consider it highly dishonourable to
implicate any woman in my destiny.'

'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Madame; 'I can assure you, my dear Mr. Walstein,
that I have a great many very pretty friends who will run the risk. 'Tis
the best cure for melancholy, believe me. I was serious myself at times
before I married, but you see I have got over my gloom.'

'You have, indeed,' said Walstein; 'and perhaps, were I Doctor de
Schulembourg, I might be as gay.'

'Another compliment! However, I accept it, because it is founded on
truth. The fact is, I think you are too much alone.'

'I have lived in a desert, and now I live in what is called the world,'
replied Walstein. 'Yet in Arabia I was fairly content, and now I
am-----what I shall not describe, because it will only procure me your
ridicule.'

'Nay! not ridicule, Mr. Walstein. Do not think that I do not sympathise
with your affliction, because I wish you to be as cheerful as my