mised her assistance, and with floating visions of guitars, butterflies, and boots made into pincushions, now prepared to listen in good earnest.
With the concentrated anger of fourteen patriots at a list of sinecures in which they have no part, or a dozen professors who find they cannot get pupils—nor fees without, Lord Merton steadied his voice, almost inarticulate from rage, sufficiently to answer,—
"Yes, Miss Arundel, I will repeat; but, remember, repetition is not renewal. I offered you the title of Lady Merton,—I am sorry for you,—good morning;" and Lord Merton left the room, thoroughly convinced of Emily's vain regrets, and with quite an elation of spirits from thinking his dignity had been properly supported, and the offender punished by his not repeating the offer.
Emily sat in the window, sometimes pondering on objects without, and then on those within, when Lorraine's entrance interrupted a very profound meditation on the strange contrarieties of love affairs in this world.
"Has Merton been here this morning?"
Emily's blush seemed sufficient answer; and Lorraine began a laughing succession of questions, congratulations, &c.
