died, leaving him all he had, and not a little disappointment. A few hundreds a-year, and a few more at the banker's, were all that remained of the wasted property of the indulged and the indolent.
But youth, even of the most provident species, rarely desponds. Mr. Boyne Sillery had enough to quiet his tailor and his perfumer—and he lived on, in hope, of an heiress. In the meantime—as Wordsworth says,
"Each man has some object of pursuit,
To which he sedulously devotes himself,"—
being too prudent for gambling, too poor for la gourmandise, too idle for any employment demanding time, too deficient for any requiring talent—he took to flirting, partly to keep his hand in for the destined heiress he was to fascinate, and partly as a present amusement. He spoke in a low tone of voice—a great thing, according to Shakespeare, in love affairs; he was pale enough for sentiment—made a study of pretty speeches—and was apt at a quotation. Did he give his arm to a damsel, whose white slipper became visible on the crimson carpeted staircase, it was
"Her fairy foot,
That falls like snow on earth, as soft and mute."
