"Then there is Denims,—I am not sure about the order,—four."
"Rich, vain, and stupid;—there never was such a dolt."
"But you kept him for a longer time than usual."
"Yes, rather; but he was too dull to understand my ironical compliments, or to resent my studied neglect."
"Jaunegant makes five."
"Oh, the precious crony of my brother Charles! The best specimen of the dandy race. The man who gives so much love to himself and his clothes, that he has none to spare for any one else. But, Lydia, this is tedious; we shall never get through at this rate. Besides," with a mock-sentimental air, "you have not been here long enough to know the melancholy history,—to count the wrecks that are strewn along the coast, where the Siren resorts. Let me take up the list. Corning, who really loved me, (six,) and went to sea to cure the heart-ache. I heard of him in State Street a month ago,—with a blue shirt and leather belt, and chewing a piece of tobacco as large as his thumb. He seemed happy as a king."
"I saw a kind of tobacco advertised as 'The Solace';—the name was given by some disappointed swain, I suppose."
"Probably," said Marcia, smiling. "Then there was Outrack, (seven,) who was so furious at the refusal, that he immediately married the gay Miss Flutter Budget, forty-five, short, stout, and fifty thousand dollars,—he twenty-six, tall, slender, and some distant expectations. I heard him, at a party, call her 'Dear'!"
"I don't think you get on any faster than I did. We shall have to finish the tour of the portrait-gallery another day."
"You are not tired? I wanted to tell you of several more. Yet I don't know why I should. I declare to you seriously, that I never before mentioned the names of these persons in this way, nor referred to them as rejected lovers."
"I have no doubt of it. It has seemed like a fresh, spontaneous confession."
"There is some magic about you, Sister Lydia. You invite confidence; or rather, you seem to be like one of those chemical agents that penetrate everything; there's no resisting you. Don't protest. I know what you would say. It isn't your curiosity. You are no Paulina Pry; if you were, precious little you would get from me."
"But, Marcia, let me return a moment to what you were saying. Did the reason never occur to you, why you so soon become tired of your admirers? You see through them, you say. Is it not possible that a lady who has the reputation of caprice,—a flirt, as the world is apt to call her,—though ever so brilliant, witty, and accomplished, may not attract the kind of men that can bear scrutiny, but only the butterfly race, fit for a brief acquaintance? Believe me, Marcia, there is a reason for everything, and, with all your beauty and fascination, you must yourself have the element of constancy, to win the admiration of the best and worthiest men."
"So, you are going to preach?" said Marcia, rather crestfallen.
"No, I don't preach. But what I see, I ought to tell you; I should not be a good sister otherwise."
"I'll think about it. But now for the musical party. I mean to send for Mr. Greenleaf, to practise some songs and duets. He is not a butterfly, I am sure."
"But, Marcia, is it well, is it right, for you to try to fascinate this new friend of yours, unless you feel something more than a transient interest in him?"
"How can I tell what interest I shall feel in him, until I know him better?"
"But you know his circumstances and his prospects. You are not the woman to marry a poor painter. You have too many wants; or rather, you have become accustomed to luxuries that now seem to be necessaries."
"True, I haven't the romance for love in a cottage. But a painter is not necessarily a bad match; if he doesn't become rich, he may be distinguished. And besides, no one knows what will happen from the beginning of an acquaintance.
