seem: hypocrisy he could never
understand, and it was almost as difficult for the worthy young man to
comprehend irony. We have seen an exemplification of this in his
affair with Hoffland; and if our narrative permitted it, we might, by
following him through his after life, find many more instances of the
same singleness of heart and understanding.

Denis was very tastefully dressed, and his face was, as we have said,
full of smiles. He held out his hand to Mowbray with honest warmth,
and they entered the cottage.

The reader may imagine that Denis inquired as to the whereabouts of
Miss Lucy--his wandering glances not having fallen upon that young
lady. Not at all. For did ever lover introduce the subject of his
lady-love? When we are young, and in love, do we go to visit Dulcinea
or her brother Tom? Is not that agreeable young gentleman the sole
attraction which draws us; do we not ride a dozen miles for his sake,
and has Dulcinea any thing to do with the rapturous delight we
experience in dreaming of the month we shall spend with Tom in August?
Of course not; and Denis did not allude in the remotest manner to
Lucy. On the contrary, he became the actor which love makes of the
truest men, and said, with careless ease:

"A lovely evening for a ride."

"Yes," said Mowbray, driving away his sad thoughts; "why didn't you
come with us, Jack?"

"With you?"

"Myself and Hoffland."

"Hoffland!"

"Yes; what surprises you?"

"Is Hoffland here?"

Mowbray nodded.

Denis looked round; and then his puzzled glance returned to the face
of his friend.

"I do not see him," he said.

"He went into the garden just now," explained Mowbray.

Denis would have given thousands to be able to say, "Where is Lucy?"
It was utterly impossible, however. Instead of doing so, he asked:

"You came in a buggy?"

"Yes," said Mowbray.

"Is Hoffland agreeable--I mean a pleasant fellow?"

"I think so: rather given to jesting--and I suppose this was the
origin of your unhappy difficulty. Most quarrels spring from jests."

"True. I believe he was jesting; in fact I know it," said poor Jack
Denis, wiping his brow and trying to plunge his glance into the depths
of the garden, where Lucy and Hoffland were no doubt walking. "Still,
Ernest, I could not have acted differently; and you would be the first
person to agree with me, were I to tell you the subject of his jests."

And Denis frowned.

"What was it?" said Mowbray. "Hoffland refu