“Simply to keep very quiet here till the affair of the tribunal is over, and then quit France at once.  Meanwhile, Trevanion thinks that we may, by a bold stratagem, send Mrs. O’Leary off on a wrong scent, and has requested Mrs. Bingham to contrive to make her acquaintance, and ask her to tea in her room, when she will see me, en Polonais, at a distance, you know—­hear something of my melancholy destiny from Trevanion—­and leave the hotel quite sure she has no claim on me.  Meanwhile, some others of the party are to mention incidentally having met Mr. O’Leary somewhere, or heard of his decease, or any pleasant little incident that may occur to them.”

“The plan is excellent,” said I, “for in all probability she may never come in your way again, if sent off on a good errand this time.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said O’Leary; “and I am greatly disposed to let her hear that I’m with Belzoni in Egypt, with an engagement to spend the Christmas with the Dey of Algiers.  That would give her a very pretty tour for the remainder of the year, and show her the pyramids.  But, tell me fairly, am I a good Pole?”

“Rather short,” said I, “and a little too fat, perhaps.”

“That comes from the dash of Tartar blood, nothing more; and my mother was a Fin,” said he, “she’ll never ask whether from Carlow or the Caucasus.  How I revel in the thought, that I may smoke in company without a breach of the unities.  But I must go:  there is a gentleman with a quinsey in No. 9, that gives me a lesson in Polish this morning.  So good-by, and don’t forget to be well enough to-night, for you must be present at my debut.”

O’Leary had scarcely gone, when my thoughts reverted to Emily Bingham.  I was not such a coxcomb as to fancy her in love with me; yet certainly there was something in the affair which looked not unlike it; and though, by such a circumstance, every embarrassment which pressed upon me had become infinitely greater, I could not dissemble from myself a sense of pleasure at the thought.  She was really a very pretty girl, and improved vastly upon acquaintance.  “Le absens ont toujours torts” is the truest proverb in any language, and I felt it in its fullest force when Trevanion entered my room.

“Well, Lorrequer,” said he, “your time is certainly not likely to hang heavily on your hands in Paris, if occupation will prevent it, for I find you are just now booked for a new scrape.”

“What can you mean?” said I, starting up.

“Why, O’Leary, who has been since your illness, the constant visiter at the Binghams—­dining there every day, and spending his evenings—­has just told me that the mamma is only waiting for the arrival of Sir Guy Lorrequer in Paris to open the trenches in all form; and from what she has heard of Sir Guy, she deems it most likely he will give her every aid and support to making you the husband of the fair Emily.”

“And with good reason, too,” said I; “for if my uncle were only given to understand that I had once gone far in my attentions, nothing would induce him to break off the match.  He was crossed in love himself when young, and has made a score of people miserable since, in the benevolent idea of marrying them against every obstacle.”