“But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?” says the other.  “Well, honest Harry, go and attack windmills—­perhaps thou art not more mad than other people,” St. John added, with a sigh.

CHAPTER III.

A paper out of the “Spectator.”

Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may read his old grandfather’s papers, chance to be presently suffering under the passion of Love?  There is a humiliating cure, but one that is easy and almost specific for the malady—­which is, to try an alibi.  Esmond went away from his mistress and was cured a half-dozen times; he came back to her side, and instantly fell ill again of the fever.  He vowed that he could leave her and think no more of her, and so he could pretty well, at least, succeed in quelling that rage and longing he had whenever he was with her; but as soon as he returned he was as bad as ever again.  Truly a ludicrous and pitiable object, at least exhausting everybody’s pity but his dearest mistress’s, Lady Castlewood’s, in whose tender breast he reposed all his dreary confessions, and who never tired of hearing him and pleading for him.

Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope.  Then again he would be plagued with despair, at some impertinence or coquetry of his mistress.  For days they would be like brother and sister, or the dearest friends—­she, simple, fond, and charming—­he, happy beyond measure at her good behavior.  But this would all vanish on a sudden.  Either he would be too pressing, and hint his love, when she would rebuff him instantly, and give his vanity a box on the ear; or he would be jealous, and with perfect good reason, of some new admirer that had sprung up, or some rich young gentleman newly arrived in the town, that this incorrigible flirt would set her nets and baits to draw in.  If Esmond remonstrated, the little rebel would say—­“Who are you?  I shall go my own way, sirrah, and that way is towards a husband, and I don’t want you on the way.  I am for your betters, Colonel, for your betters:  do you hear that?  You might do if you had an estate and were younger; only eight years older than I, you say! pish, you are a hundred years older.  You are an old, old Graveairs, and I should make you miserable, that would be the only comfort I should have in marrying you.  But you have not money enough to keep a cat decently after you have paid your man his wages, and your landlady her bill.  Do you think I am going to live in a lodging, and turn the mutton at a string whilst your honor nurses the baby?  Fiddlestick, and why did you not get this nonsense knocked out of your head when you were in the wars?  You are come back more dismal and dreary than ever.  You and mamma are fit for each other.  You might be Darby and Joan, and play cribbage to the end of your lives.”

“At least you own to your worldliness, my poor Trix,” says her mother.