inette's
emporium; and the consequence was that the young gentleman retreated
three steps.

"I don't think I have time," he said laughing; "but I'll wait for you
here: the sun is warm, but I can easily protect my face by holding my
handkerchief to it."

And taking up his position in the vestibule, so to speak, of the shop,
Hoffland placed himself as much out of view as possible, and waited.
Spite of the fact that the sun's rays did not penetrate to the spot
which he occupied, the white handkerchief was still used as a shade.

Mowbray entered and approached Madam Finette.

But that lady was busy; her counter was covered with magnificent
silks, ribbons, velvets and laces, which she was unrolling, folding
up, drawing out, and chattering about, as fast as her small hands and
agile tongue would permit. Before her stood a lady, who, accompanied
by her cavalier, was engaged in the momentous task of making up her
mind what colors of velvet and satin ribbon she should select.

The lady was young and smiling--cheerful and graceful. When she
laughed, the musical chime of the timepiece overhead was drowned, and
died away; when she smiled, the sunlight seemed to have darted one of
its brightest beams into the shop. The gentleman was elegant and
melancholy: he looked like Endymion on Latmos trying to recall his
dream, or like Narcissus fading into shadow. His costume resembled a
variegated Dutch tulip; his hair was powdered to excess; he sighed and
whispered sadly, and looked at the lady.

The lady was called Belle-bouche, Belinda, or Rebecca.

The gentleman was familiarly known as Jacques.

"I think that would suit you," sighed Jacques.

"This ribbon?" asked Belle-bouche, with a gay smile.

"Yes; it is yours by right. It is the prettiest of all."

"I am glad you like it--I do."

"It would suit the mythologic Maia."

"Then it will not me."

"Yes, yes," sighed Jacques, in a whisper; "you are May incarnate--with
its tender grace, and lovely freshness, and Arcadian beauty."

Belle-bouche smiled, and yet did not laugh at the oft repeated
Arcadian simile.

"Methinks," said Jacques, with a species of melancholy grace, "these
ribbons would suit your costume at the Arcadian festival, which you
have honored me with the management of----"

"At Shadynook? Oh, yes! would they now?"

"I think so, madam. Imagine the crooks wreathed with these ribbons and
with flowers--the shepherds would go mad with delight."

"Then I will