though every hour of the day should show me, duped and deceived.  While I plead guilty to this impeachment, let me show mitigation, that it has its enjoyments—­first, although I am the most constant and devoted man breathing, as a very cursory glance at these confessions may prove, yet I have never been able to restrain myself from a propensity to make love, merely as a pastime.  The gambler that sits down to play cards, or hazard against himself, may perhaps be the only person that can comprehend this tendency of mine.  We both of us are playing for nothing (or love, which I suppose is synonymous;) we neither of us put forth our strength; for that very reason, and in fact like the waiter at Vauxhall who was complimented upon the dexterity with which he poured out the lemonade, and confessed that he spent his mornings “practising with vater,” we pass a considerable portion of our lives in a mimic warfare, which, if it seem unprofitable, is, nevertheless, pleasant.

After all this long tirade, need I say how our walk proceeded?  We had fallen into a kind of discussion upon the singular intimacy which had so rapidly grown up amongst us, and which years long might have failed to engender.  Our attempts to analyse the reasons for, and the nature of the friendship thus so suddenly established—­a rather dangerous and difficult topic, when the parties are both young—­one eminently handsome, and the other disposed to be most agreeable.  Oh, my dear young friends of either sex, whatever your feelings be for one another, keep them to yourselves; I know of nothing half so hazardous as that “comparing of notes” which sometimes happens.  Analysis is a beautiful thing in mathematics or chemistry, but it makes sad havoc when applied to the “functions of the heart.”

“Mamma appears to have forgotten us,” said Isabella, as she spoke, after walking for some time in silence beside me.

“Oh, depend upon it, the carriage has taken all this time to repair; but are you tired?”

“Oh, by no means; the evening is delightful, but—­”

“Then perhaps you are ennuyee,” said I, half pettishly, to provoke a disclaimer if possible.  To this insidiously put quere I received, as I deserved, no answer, and again we sauntered on without speaking.

“To whom does that chateau belong, my old friend?” said I addressing a man on the road-side.

“A Monsieur le Marquis, sir,” replied he.

“But what’s his name, though?”

“Ah, that I can’t tell you,” replied the man again.

There you may perceive how, even yet, in provincial France, the old respect for the aristocracy still survives; it is sufficient that the possessor of that fine place is “Monsieur le Marquis;” but any other knowledge of who he is, and what, is superfluous.  “How far are we from the next village, do you know?”

“About a league.”

“Indeed.  Why I thought ‘La Scarpe’ was quite near us.”