“Heaven knows, madam,” replied Woodward, “it is time only that will tell that.  Love is a strange and sometimes rather a painful malady.”

“Of course you speak from your own experience, Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice.

“Then you have had the complaint, sir,” said O’Connor, laughing.  “I wonder is it like small-pox or measles?”

“How is that, sir?” said Woodward, smiling.

“Why, that if you’ve had it once you’ll never have it a second time.”

“Yes, but if I should be ill of it now?” and he glanced at Alice, who blushed.

“Why, in that case,” replied O’Connor, “it’s in bed you ought to be; no man with an epidemic on him should be permitted to go abroad among his majesty’s liege subjects.”

“Yes, Ferdora,” said Alice, “but I don’t think Mr. Woodward’s complaint is catching.”

“God forbid that the gentleman should die of it, though,” replied Ferdora, “for that would be a serious loss to the ladies.”

“You exaggerate that calamity, sir,” replied Woodward, with the slightest imaginable sneer, “and forget that if I die you survive me.”

“Well, certainly, there is consolation in that,” said O’Connor, “especially for the ladies, as I said; isn’t there, Alley?”

“Certainly,” replied Alice; “in making love, Ferdora, you have the prowess of ten men.”

“Do you speak from experience, now, Miss Goodwin?” asked Woodward, rather dryly.

“O! no,” replied Alice, “I have only his own word for it.”

“Only his own word.  Miss Goodwin!  Do you imply by that, that his own word requires corroboration?”

Alice blushed again, and felt confused.

“I assure you, Mr. Woodward,” said O’Connor, “that when my word requires corroboration, I always corroborate it myself.”

“But, according to Miss Goodwin’s account of it, sir, that’s not likely to add much to its authenticity.”

“Well, Mr. Woodward,” said O’Connor, with the greatest suavity of manner, “I’ll tell you my method under such circumstances; whenever I meet a gentleman that doubts my word, I always make him eat his onion.

“There’s nothing new or wonderful in that,” replied the other; “it has been my own practice during life.”

“What? to eat your own words!” exclaimed O’Connor, purposely mistaking him; “very windy feeding, faith.  Upon my honor and conscience, in that case, your complaint must be nothing else but the colic, and not love at all.  Try peppermint wather, Mr. Woodward.”

Alice saw at once, but could not account for the fact, that the worthy gentlemen were cutting at each other, and the timid girl became insensibly alarmed at the unaccountable sharpness of their brief encounter.  She looked with an anxious countenance, first at one, and then at the other, but scarcely knew what to say.  Woodward, however, who was better acquainted with the usages of society, and the deference due to the presence of women, than the brusque, but somewhat fiery Milesian, now said, with a smile and a bow to that gentleman: