a temper. "Is it,
then, such a matter of importance? I am sure you have danced before--at
my birthdays in Marlboro' Street and at your own, and Will Fotheringay's,
and I know not how many others."

"Of course," replies Dolly, sweetly; "but never with a real man. Boys
like you and Will and the Lloyds do not count. Dr. Courtenay is at
Wilmot House, and is coming to-night; and he has asked me out. Think
of it, Richard! Dr. Courtenay!"

"A plague upon him! He is a fop!"

"A fop!" exclaimed Dolly, her humour bettering as mine went down. "Oh,
no; you are jealous. He is more sought after than any gentleman at the
assemblies, and Miss Dulany vows his steps are ravishing. There's for
you, my lad! He may not be able to keep pace with you in the chase, but
he has writ the most delicate verses ever printed in Maryland, and no
other man in the colony can turn a compliment with his grace. Shall I
tell you more? He sat with me for over an hour last night, until mamma
sent me off to bed, and was very angry at you because I had engaged to
ride with you to-day."

"And I suppose you wish you had stayed with him," I flung back, hotly.
"He had spun you a score of fine speeches and a hundred empty compliments
by now."

"He had been better company than you, sir," she laughed provokingly.
"I never heard you turn a compliment in your life, and you are now
seventeen. What headway do you expect to make at the assemblies?"

"None," I answered, rather sadly than otherwise. For she had touched
me upon a sore spot. "But if I cannot win a woman save by compliments,"
I added, flaring up, "then may I pay a bachelor's tax!"

My lady drew her whip across my knee.

"You must tell us we are beautiful, Richard," said she, in another tone.

"You have but to look in a pier-glass," I retorted. "And, besides, that
is not sufficient. You will want some rhyming couplet out of a mythology
before you are content."

She laughed again.

"Sir," answered she, "but you have wit, if you can but be got angry."

She leaned over the dial's face, and began to draw the Latin numerals
with her finger. So arch, withal, that I forgot my ill-humour.

"If you would but agree to stay angry for a day," she went on, in a low
tone, "perhaps--"

"Perhaps?"

"Perhaps you would be better company," said Dorothy. "You would surely
be more entertaining."

"Dorothy, I love you," I said.

"To be sure. I know that," she replied. "I think you have said that
before."

I a