Miss Lavinia shook her head with a ghostly smile.

“I’m afraid you are very gallant, Mr. Roundjacket.”

“I, madam? no, no; I am the coldest and most prosaic of men.”

“But your poem?”

“You have heard of that?”

“Yes, indeed, sir.”

“Well, madam, that is but another proof of the fact which I assert.”

“How, indeed?”

“It is on the prosaic and repulsive subject of the Certiorari.”

And Mr. Roundjacket smiled after such a fashion, that it was not difficult to perceive the small amount of sincerity in this declaration.

Miss Lavinia looked puzzled, and fanned herself more solemnly than ever.

“The Certiorari, did you say, sir?” she asked.

“Yes, madam—­one of our legal proceedings; and if you are really curious, I will read a portion of my unworthy poem to you—­ahem!—­”

As Mr. Roundjacket spoke, an overturned chair in the adjoining room indicated that the occupant of the apartment had been disturbed by the noise, and was about to oppose the invasion of his rights.

Roundjacket no sooner heard this, than he restored the poem to his desk, with a sigh, and said: 

“But you, no doubt, came on business, madam—­I delay you—­Mr. Rushton—­”

At the same moment the door of Mr. Rushton’s room opened, and that gentleman made his appearance, shaggy and irate—­a frown upon his brow, and a man-eating expression on his compressed lips.

The sight of Miss Lavinia slightly removed the wrathful expression, and Mr. Rushton contented himself with bestowing a dreadful scowl on Roundjacket, which that gentleman returned, and then counteracted by an amiable smile.

Miss Lavinia greeted the lawyer with grave dignity, and said she had come in, in passing, to consult him about some little matters which she wished him to arrange for her; and trusted that she found him disengaged.

This was said with so much dignity, that Mr. Rushton could not scowl, and so he invited Miss Lavinia to enter his sanctum, politely leading the way.

The lady sailed after him—­and the door closed.

No sooner had she disappeared, than Mr. Roundjacket seized his ruler, for a moment abandoned, and proceeded to execute innumerable flourishes toward the adjoining room, for what precise purpose does not very accurately appear.  In the middle of this ceremony, however, and just as his reflections were about to shape themselves into words, the front door opened, and Verty made his appearance, joyful and smiling.

In his hand Verty carried his old battered violin; at his heels stalked the grave and dignified Longears.

“Good morning, Mr. Roundjacket,” said Verty, smiling; “how do you do to-day?”

“Moderate, moderate, young man,” said the gentleman addressed; “you seem, however, to be at the summit of human felicity.”

“Anan?”