plunge, and come and tell me whether you have found the pearl of wisdom.”  He frowned a little, as if he thought my sympathy a trifle meagre.  I shook him by the hand and laughed.  “The pearl of wisdom,” I cried, “is love; honest love in the most convenient concentration of experience!  I advise you to fall in love.”  He gave me no smile in response, but drew from his pocket the letter of which I have spoken, held it up, and shook it solemnly.  “What is it?” I asked.

“It is my sentence!”

“Not of death, I hope!”

“Of marriage.”

“With whom?”

“With a person I don’t love.”

This was serious.  I stopped smiling, and begged him to explain.

“It is the singular part of my story,” he said at last.  “It will remind you of an old-fashioned romance.  Such as I sit here, talking in this wild way, and tossing off provocations to destiny, my destiny is settled and sealed.  I am engaged, I am given in marriage.  It’s a bequest of the past—­the past I had no hand in!  The marriage was arranged by my father, years ago, when I was a boy.  The young girl’s father was his particular friend; he was also a widower, and was bringing up his daughter, on his side, in the same severe seclusion in which I was spending my days.  To this day I am unacquainted with the origin of the bond of union between our respective progenitors.  Mr. Vernor was largely engaged in business, and I imagine that once upon a time he found himself in a financial strait and was helped through it by my father’s coming forward with a heavy loan, on which, in his situation, he could offer no security but his word.  Of this my father was quite capable.  He was a man of dogmas, and he was sure to have a rule of life—­as clear as if it had been written out in his beautiful copper-plate hand—­adapted to the conduct of a gentleman toward a friend in pecuniary embarrassment.  What is more, he was sure to adhere to it.  Mr. Vernor, I believe, got on his feet, paid his debt, and vowed my father an eternal gratitude.  His little daughter was the apple of his eye, and he pledged himself to bring her up to be the wife of his benefactor’s son.  So our fate was fixed, parentally, and we have been educated for each other.  I have not seen my betrothed since she was a very plain-faced little girl in a sticky pinafore, hugging a one-armed doll—­of the male sex, I believe—­as big as herself.  Mr. Vernor is in what is called the Eastern trade, and has been living these many years at Smyrna.  Isabel has grown up there in a white-walled garden, in an orange grove, between her father and her governess.  She is a good deal my junior; six months ago she was seventeen; when she is eighteen we are to marry.”

He related all this calmly enough, without the accent of complaint, drily rather and doggedly, as if he were weary of thinking of it.  “It’s a romance, indeed, for these dull days,” I said, “and I heartily congratulate you.  It’s not every young man who finds, on reaching the marrying age, a wife kept in a box of rose-leaves for him.  A thousand to one Miss Vernor is charming; I wonder you don’t post off to Smyrna.”