Mr. Sullivan Smith had solemnified himself to proffer a sober petition within the walls of the newly widowed lady’s house; namely, for nothing less than that sweet lady’s now unfettered hand:  and it had therefore been perfectly natural to him, until his performance ended with the destruction of his hopes, to deliver himself in the high Castilian manner.  Quite unexpected, however, was the reciprocal loftiness of tone spontaneously adopted by the young English squire, for whom, in consequence, he conceived a cordial relish; and as he paced in the footsteps of Arthur, anxious to quiet his curiosity by hearing how it had fared with one whom he had to suppose the second applicant, he kept ejaculating:  ’Not a bit!  The fellow can’t be Saxon!  And she had a liking for him.  She’s nigh coming of the age when a woman takes to the chicks.  Better he than another, if it’s to be any one.  For he’s got fun in him; he carries his own condiments, instead of borrowing from the popular castors, as is their way over here.  But I might have known there ’s always sure to be salt and savour in the man she covers with her wing.  Excepting, if you please, my dear lady, a bad shot you made at a rascal cur, no more worthy of you than Beelzebub of Paradise.  No matter!  The daughters’ of Erin must share the fate of their mother Isle, that their tears may shine in the burst of sun to follow.  For personal and patriotic motives, I would have cheered her and been like a wild ass combed and groomed and tamed by the adorable creature.  But her friend says there ’s not a whisk of a chance for me, and I must roam the desert, kicking up, and worshipping the star I hail brightest.  They know me not, who think I can’t worship.  Why, what were I without my star?  At best a pickled porker.’

Sullivan Smith became aware of a ravishing melodiousness in the soliloquy, as well as a clean resemblance in the simile.  He would certainly have proceeded to improvize impassioned verse, if he had not seen Arthur Rhodes on the pavement.  ’So, here’s the boy.  Query, the face he wears.’

‘How kind of you to wait,’ said Arthur.

‘We’ll call it sympathy, for convenience,’ rejoined Sullivan Smith.  ‘Well, and what next?’

‘You know as much as I do.  Thank heaven, she is recovering.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Why, what more?’

Arthur was jealously, inspected.

‘You look open-hearted, my dear boy.’  Sullivan Smith blew the sound of a reflected ahem.  ‘Excuse me for cornemusing in your company,’ he said.  ’But seriously, there was only one thing to pardon your hurrying to the lady’s door at such a season, when the wind tells tales to the world.  She’s down with a cold, you know.’

‘An influenza,’ said Arthur.

The simplicity of the acquiescence was vexatious to a champion desirous of hostilities, to vindicate the lady, in addition to his anxiety to cloak her sad plight.