sps at it
with the desperation of a drowning man. He says:

"'Tis a charming day, fairest Belle-bouche--Belinda, I mean. Ah,
pardon my awkwardness!"

And the unhappy Corydon betrays by his confusion how much this slip of
the tongue has embarrassed him--at least, that he wishes her to think
so.

The little beauty smiles faintly, and bending a fatal languishing
glance upon her admirer, says:

"You called me--what was it?"

"Ah, pardon me."

"Oh certainly!--but please say what you called me."

"How can I?"

"By telling me," says the beauty philosophically.

"Must I?" says Jacques, reflecting that after all his offence was not
so dreadful.

"If you please."

"I said Belle-bouche."

"Ah! that is----?"

"Pretty-mouth," says Lovelace, with the air of a man who is caught
feloniously appropriating sheep; but unable to refrain from bending
wistful looks upon the topic of his discourse.

Belle-bouche laughs with a delicious good humor, and Jacques takes
heart again.

"Is that all?" she says; "but what a pretty name!"

"Do you like it, really?" asks the forlorn lover.

"Indeed I do."

"And may I call you Belle-bouche?"

"If you please."

Jacques feels his heart oppressed with its weight of love. He sighs.
This manoeuvre is greeted with a little laugh.

"Oh, that was a dreadful heigho!" she says; "you must be in love."

"I am," he says, "desperately."

A slight color comes to her bright cheek, for it is impossible to
misunderstand his eloquent glance.

"Are you?" she says; "but that is wrong. Fie on't! Was ever Corydon
really in love with his Chloe--or are his affections always confined
to the fluttering ribbons, and the crook, wreathed with flowers, which
make her a pleasant object only, like a picture?"

Jacques sighs.

"I am not a Corydon," he says, "much less have I a Chloe--at least,
who treats me as Chloes should treat their faithful shepherds. My
Chloe runs away when I approach, and her crook turns into a shadow
which I grasp in vain at. The shepherdess has escaped!"

"It is well she don't beat you," says the lovely girl, smiling.

"Beat me!"

"With her crook."

"Ah! I ask nothing better than to excite some emotion in her tender
heart more lively than indifference. Perhaps were she to hate me a
little, and consequently beat me, as you have said, she might end by
drawing me towards her with her flowery crook."

The young girl laughs.

"Would you follow?"

"Ah, yes--for who knows