many profiles. He was brilliant, witty, sentimental,
a petted darling of the salons, free and easy
in manner, freer and easier in his life, penniless
and political. In short, a true young French
author. All these profiles, however, he might
have shown save the last; which was the wrong
one—and which he had exhibited to wrong
persons. So that when the light-haired English
captain and his wife—in custody of a dreadfully
business-like woman in green, armed with little
footstools—was let into a box or balcony, they
found it crowded to the ceiling, but with two
armies mixed together below, who at the proper
season would draw off and join battle.

Captain Fermor settled himself, drew his hand
up and down freely over his fresh clean shirt linen
(perhaps the freshest and cleanest of all shirt
linen in that assembly), fetched out his glass, and
did the honours of the place. The girl beside
him had a round quiet soft face, that would be
called handsome, with a good smile. With fresh
round cheeks, that twenty years hence will be
fresher and rounder; she had a smile and a
laugh ever hovering—hiding, perhaps—at the
corner of her mouth: which, on faint encouragement
fluttered out and crossed to the other side,
like some of the little figures in the Strasburg
clock. She was very happy at that moment, in
the gay and almost exciting scene, in herself,
and in the noble—almost too superior—protector
and patron who sat beside her reading his
bill, who was so good natured as to teach her in
reference to many of the little matters about
her.

He took her through that document. "These
fellows," he said, with comic pity, "will make a
play out of anything. Just listen: 'L'AMOUR
SE PAIE.' This is what we have come to see,
L'Amour se Paie. There they are, all like
children down there, crushing each other flat to
get a doll or a bit of sugar-stick. I should like to
throw it down to them—how they would struggle
for it!"

The girl laughed at this pleasant way of
putting the thing, and looked down at the
amphitheatre of big children below. It was the
most crowded playground they had seen for some
time; but the game would presently turn out of
a rough sort. A low hum and buzz rose from it,
and nearly every one was standing up with the
usual optical fire-arm levelled from his eye.

Next door, as it were, were a pair of typical
Frenchmen, well dined and well filled. They
had about begun to live; that meal was almost
the first tangible act of this day. One was
black and glossy-haired, with cheeks shaded
over, through imperfect shaving, like parchment
written upon; the other a gross swollen
Frenchman, who under his waistcoat might have
been corded round and round like brawn, and
whose hair, black, short, and stubbly, dipped
down in the centre of his forehead like the peak
of a lady's waist. Both did a great deal of navvy's
work, with little pickaxes, about their teeth, and
both contemplated the English girl with quiet
and critical study, as if she were part of the
entertainment for which they had paid.

"English?" said the corded gentleman, half
across his pickaxe. (He had come on a rocky and
obstinate stratum.)

"Yes," said the other, also excavating; "a
dish fresh and soft, too!" Both critics, calmly
approbative, did not even care to drop their voices.

"Dear Charles," said the girl, delighted with
everything about, "how charming all this is!
It is fairy land! O what a place to live in!
Ah," said she, suddenly, "do you recollect Roger
de Garçon, that you used to lend me? Dear
me," she added, in a sort of rapture of recollection,
"how pleasant that was! Only this morning
I was reading the old copy. But you forget."

"Ah, yes!" said he. "To be sure. You know
I don't like plays. Why don't they begin in the
orchestra?" Someway he did not dwell on the
reminiscence with the same relish as she did.

"How long ago all that seems," said the girl;
"like a dream. Your going to India—and coming
back again. And that soft, sweet child Violet;
who had such a charming name, and was so cold
and treacherous——"

"A year and six months," said he, in his
dryest key, "is a year and six months, I believe.
There were things at that place, and persons at
that place, one meets every day. We have done
with it now, and had better let it rest, and think
of the present."

"But, somehow," she went on, "I felt such
an interest in her, though I never saw her.
I felt to her like a sister. And I assure you,"
she continued, in a little confusion, "only that
papa had set his heart on your marrying me—I
had often begged of him to go away and leave
the place; it seemed so cruel to interfere with
such a soft darling as I fancied her."

Fermor coloured. "You are candid," he said,
a little bitterly. It was only the first two months
of their marriage, or the infusion would have been
stronger. "You tell the truth, certainly. I
suppose there are to be no secrets between
husband and wife."

She smiled, taking this for a welcome little
burst of nuptial jealousy, (Olives come in very
pleasantly with wine.)

"I like to talk of Eastport," she said,
coquettishly. "For I was very happy there,
though so ill. And yet it was so odd, so
incomprehensible."

"What, pray?" said he, suddenly.

"I mean her turning out such a cold, designing
creature—marrying that other man. I could
not have fancied it. I was so sorry, though it
was so fortunate for me."

A smile of complacency struggled in Fermor's
face, while he said, "And for me too, I
suppose I must say."

"And O! will you forgive me for telling
you?" she went on; eagerly. "When I first
heard of it, I thought the poor girl had been what
they call thrown over, and I felt so much for her,
that I said to papa——"