s drawn.

A lady was asked the other day "what she did when an admirer became too
lover-like." Her answer was, "I never had such a case." I think she
spoke the truth; yet she was a coquette renowned through a good part of
two hemispheres.

As for the doubts and fears of the other sex, the subject is too vast
for me. To the end of time there will be Deianiras (with imaginary
Ioles), Zaras, and Mrs. Caudles. Tragedy and comedy have tried in vain
to frighten or to laugh them out of the indulgence of the fatal passion,
that wreaks itself indiscriminately on the beat and the worst, the
youngest and the oldest, the simplest and the most guileful of adult
males. Let us not attempt to argue, then, but, wrapping ourselves in our
virtue, endure as best we may the groundless reproaches and accusations
of our ox-eyed Junos.

We _did_ Venice very severely, with the exception of Forrester, who,
after strolling once through the Palace of the Doges (a pilgrimage
interrupted by many halts and profuse lamentations), declined seeing any
thing more than what he could view from his gondola. I never saw any
one so completely at home in that most delicious of conveyances. His
Venetian friends encouraged and sympathized with him in his laziness,
and pitied him with eyes and words, forever being teased about it.
Indeed, he was generally left alone; but one day we were landing to see
a church of great repute, and Miss Devereux made a strong appeal to him
to follow her. She was a handsome, clever girl, a great favorite of
Charley's. I believe they used to quarrel and make it up again about six
times in every twenty-four hours. We saw that it was hopeless, but she
was obstinate enough to try and persuade him.

"Now, Captain Forrester, you must come. I have set my heart upon it."

He lifted his long eyelashes in a languid satisfaction. "Thank you very
much; I like people to be interested about me; but you see it's simply
impossible. Look at Rinaldo; there's a sensible example for you. He
doesn't mean to stir till he is obliged to do so." The handsome
gondolier had already couched, to enjoy a bask in the sun, which was
blazing fiercely down on his brown face and magnificent black hair.

"There is the most perfect Titian," she persisted.

"No use. I should not appreciate it," he replied. "I have been through a
gallery _with you_ before. It's a delusion and a snare. I never looked
at a single picture. The canvas won't stand the comparison."