y, you discover all
sorts of snug, little, out-of-the-way closets and recesses, full of old
books and old wine, and all things rich and curious. But the entrance is
uninviting to a casual acquaintance. Now, when you find an American of
the right stamp (here Benson's hands were accidentally employed in
adjusting his cravat), he hits the proper medium, and is accessible as a
Frenchman and as true as an Englishman."

Ashburner was going to express a doubt as to the compatibility of the
two qualities, when Harrison struck in again.

"On that account I never could see why Frenchmen should be dreaded as
dangerous in society. They fling out all their graces at once, exhaust
all their powers of fascination, and soon begin to be tiresome. How many
cases I have seen where a Frenchman fancied he was making glorious
headway in a lady's affections, and that she was just ready to fall into
his arms, when she was only ready to fall asleep in his face, and was
civil to him only from a great sacrifice of inclination to politeness!"

"Very pleasant it must be to a lady," said Ashburner, "that a man should
be at the same time wearying her to death with his company, and
perilling her reputation out of doors by his language."

"By Jove, it's dinner time!" exclaimed Benson, pulling out a microscopic
Geneva watch. "I thought the clock of my inner man said as much." And
back they hurried through the woods to the Glen House, but were as late
for the dinner as they had been for the dance. Harrison and Benson found
seats at the lower end of the table, where they established themselves
together and began, _a propos_ of Edwards's misadventure, to talk horse,
either because they had exhausted all other subjects, or because they
did not think the company worthy a better one. Mrs. Benson beckoned
Ashburner up to a place by her, but, somehow, he found himself opposite
Mrs. Harrison's eyes, and though he could not remember any thing she
said ten minutes after, her conversation, or looks, or both, had the
effect of transferring to her all the interest he was beginning to feel
for her husband--of whom, by the way, she took no more notice than if he
had not belonged to her.

"Poor Harrison!" said Benson, as he and Ashburner were walking their
horses leisurely homeward that evening (they both had too much sense to
ride fast after dinner), "he is twice thrown away! He might have been a
literary gentleman and a lover of art, living quietly on a respectabl