trick. Don't see the young woman, or she will get round you with half a jiffy. Write to her that you are not worthy of a rap, and no more a Prince than I am!"
Hearing his last words, I started, and did, like the ghost of Hamlet, Senior, "jump at this dead hour," being convinced that young Howard had found out (perhaps from Hon'ble Cummerbund) that my title was a bogus, and anticipating that, if he divulged the skeleton of my bare cupboard to his highly genteel parents, I should infallibly experience the crushing mortification of a chuck out.
However, I hid the fox that was nibbling my vitals by inquiring, in a rather natural accent, what he meant by such a suggestion.
"Are you such an innocent, simple old Johnny, Prince," he said, with reassuring bonhomie, "as not to catch the idea? Do you not know that European feminines in all ranks of society—alack, even in our own!—are immoderately attracted by anyone possessed of riches and a title—or of either of the two? As an au faīt in the female temperament, I shall wager that it is nine out of ten that if you spoof this mercenary young minx into believing that you are merely a native impecunious nonentity, and not to be shot at with powder, she will instantaneously drop pursuing such a hot potato."
To this speech (reported verbatim to best of my ability) I did shake my head sorrowfully,
