“It would be odd if you did, uncle, dear; why, it is pathetic.”

“Pathetic?  Oh, is it?”

“You naughty, cunning uncle, you know it is; it is pathetic, and almost heroic.  Consider, dear:  in a world where the very newspapers show how mercenary we all are, a poor young man is parted from his love.  He has but one coin to go through the world with, and what does he do with it?  Scheme to make the sixpence a crown, and to make the crown a pound?  No; he breaks this one treasure in two, that both the poor things may have a silver token of love and a pledge of his return.  I am sure, if the poet had been here, he would have been quite angry with us for laughing at that line.”

“Keep your temper.  Why, this is new from you, Lucy; but you women of sugar can all cauterize your own sex; the theme inspires you.”

“Uncle, how dare you!  Are you not afraid I shall be angry one of these days, dear!!?  The gentlemen were equally concerned in this last enormity.  Poor Jemmy, or Jammy, with his devotion and tenderness that soothed, and his high spirit that supported the weaker vessel, was as funny to our male as to our female guests—­so there.  I saw but one that understood him, and did not laugh at him”

“Talboys, for a pound.”

“Mr. Talboys? no! You, dear uncle; you did not laugh; I noticed it with all a niece’s pride.”

“Of course I didn’t.  Can I hear a word these ladies mew? can I tell in what language even they are whining and miauling?  I have given up trying this twenty years and more.”

“I return to my question,” said Lucy hastily.

“And I to my solution; your three graces are three d—­d fools.  If you can account for it in any other way, do.”

“No, uncle dear.  If you had happened to agree with me beforehand, I would; but as you do not, I beg to be excused.  But keep the paper, and the next time listen to the talk and unmeaning laughter; you will find I have not exaggerated, and some day, dear, I will tell you how my mamma used to account for similar monstrosities in society.”

“Here is a mysterious little toad.  Well, Lucy, for all this you enjoyed yourself.  I never saw you in better spirits.”

“I am glad you saw that,” said Lucy, with a languid smile.

“And how Talboys came out.”

“He did,” sighed Lucy.

Here the young lady lighted softly on an ottoman, and sank gracefully back with a weary-o’-the-world air; and when she had settled down like so much floss silk, fixing her eye on the ceiling, and doling her words out languidly yet thoughtfully—­just above a whisper, “Uncle, darling,” inquired she, “where are the men we have all heard of?”

“How should I know?  What men?”

“Where are the men of sentiment, that can understand a woman, and win her to reveal her real heart, the best treasure she has, uncle dear?” She paused for a reply; none coming, she continued with decreasing energy: