- sideration, deserted by your parents for State reasons
or matters of that sort. We read of such things in the story-books, you know."
"Not I," says he, with his delicious gravity. "I know quite well I am not that. I am a person of low tastes."
Here he sighed.
"They might be the fruits of your education," says I, tenaciously, for I love aught that seems at all romantic or mysterious. "Let me hear them, sir, for I believe I am well fitted to pronounce a verdict thereupon."
"For one thing," says he, "I am fond of cheese."
"How barbarous!" says I.
"And I prefer to drink from pewter."
"'Tis a survival of the Vandal and the Goth," says I.
"And velvet frets me. I cannot bow; I cannot pirouette; I cannot make a leg; and I have no gift of compliment."
"Mr. Dare," says I, "you are indeed a waif, and not a high-born gentleman. Mr. Dare, your case is hopeless."
But so heavy a decision sat upon him in the lightest manner, for he heard the feet of the approaching Emblem and the rattle of dishes on a tray. She, too, had evidently formed a low opinion of his tastes, for she had brought him the rudest pigeon pie and the vulgarest pot of ale you ever saw.
"I hope, my wench," says I, sharply, "you let no
