At the soirée of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment.  Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my pretty hostess for a vis-à-vis, than I propounded those questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential to my peace.

“Smith?” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.?  Horrid affair that, wasn’t it? — diamonds, did you say? — terrible wretches those Kickapoos! — we are playing whist, if you please, Mr. Tattle — however, this is the age of invention, most certainly the age, one may say — the age par excellence — speak French? — oh, quite a hero — perfect desperado! — no hearts, Mr. Tattle?  I don’t believe it! — immortal renown and all that! — prodigies of valor! Never heard!! — why, bless me, he’s the man” —–­

“Mann? — Captain Mann?” here screamed some little feminine interloper from the farthest corner of the room.  “Are you talking about Captain Mann and the duel? — oh, I must hear — do tell — go on, Mrs. O’Trump! — do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did - all about a certain Captain Mann, who was either shot or hung, or should have been both shot and hung.  Yes!  Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and I — I went off.  There was no chance of hearing anything farther that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.

Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill luck would not run against me forever, and so determined to make a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.

“Smith?” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a pas de zephyr, “Smith? — why, not General John A. B. C.?  Dreadful business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it? — dreadful creatures, those Indians! — do turn out your toes!  I really am ashamed of you — man of great courage, poor fellow! — but this is a wonderful age for invention — O dear me, I’m out of breath — quite a desperado — prodigies of valor — never heard!! — can’t believe it - I shall have to sit down and enlighten you — Smith! why, he’s the man” —–­

“Man-Fred, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led Mrs. Pirouette to a seat.  “Did ever anybody hear the like?  It’s Man-Fred, I say, and not at all by any means Man-Friday.”  Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner; and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain poetical drama of Lord Byron’s.  Although I pronounced, with great promptness, that the true title was Man-Friday, and not by any means Man-Fred, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the Bas-Bleus.