“I only translated them,” said L’Isle, bowing gaily to her.

“May I be ever blessed with such an interpreter,” said Lady Mabel, “and I may, without fear, set up for a wit.”  And she repeated some of the best things he had said in her name, and seemed to enjoy them so much, that L’Isle, who, like some other people, had

                       “A heart
  Open as day to melting flattery,”

became almost as much charmed with himself as he was with his companion.  Thus they amused themselves, recalling the little incidents of the evening; Lady Mabel turning satirist, at the cost of all her friends, not sparing even Mrs. Shortridge, in her attempts to play the Rome hostess, and ridiculing, without mercy, the commissary’s awkward efforts at Portuguese eloquence and politeness.  Then recalling and laughing at the extravagant compliments paid her after each song, she sung snatches of several of her favorite pieces, but had the grace not to allude to ‘Constant my Heart;’ while L’Isle longed for an occasion, yet hesitated to tell her how much better he liked it than all the others.  In the midst of her extravagantly high spirits, checking herself suddenly, she said:  “I see that you are surprised at me, but not more than I am at myself.  Have you ever heard of our Scottish superstition of being fie—­that is, possessed by a preternatural excess of vivacity?  No?  It is deemed the sure forerunner of evil at hand,—­a sudden and violent death; some dire misfortune; perhaps a sad and final parting of—­of the dearest friends.  I own,” she added, with a deep sigh, “I cannot free myself from this superstition of the country.”

“I will not share it with you!” L’Isle exclaimed.  “And you must shake it off.  What were life without hope, and high hope too!” and seizing her hand he kissed it respectfully but with a fervor which indicated the direction his hopes had taken.

“For shame, Colonel L’Isle!” she exclaimed, laughing, while she snatched her hand away.  “See how much shocked Jenny is at this liberty taken with her mistress!”

L’Isle had forgotten Jenny Aiken’s presence.  He turned to look at her, and the Scotch Hebe was plainly more amused than shocked at what she was witnessing.  Had L’Isle forgotten also his appointment to-morrow morning at Alcantara?  Perhaps not.  But had Sir Rowland Hill now appeared and demanded his opinion of the Andalusian levies, L’Isle would have told him that he had no leisure to think of him or them.

But all sublunary pleasure has an end.  Supper was over, and L’Isle could devise no excuse for lingering here, but the pleasure of listening to Lady Mabel, who seemed willing to amuse him as long as he staid.  After a pause, divining that he was about to take leave of her, she said suddenly:  “What an unreasonable fellow Sir Rowland Hill must be!  Because he cannot find any one to execute his delicate commissions half so well as you do, he must be thrusting them all upon you!  Does he take you for a Popish saint, endowed with pluripresence, and able to be in Andalusia, at Badajoz, Elvas, and Alcantara, all at one time?”