to see you thoroughly in love for once in your life,
Freddy," said I; "it would be as good as a comedy."

"Thank ye," was the rejoinder, "you'd be a pleasant sort of fellow to
make a confidant of, I don't think. Here's a man now, who calls himself
one's friend, and fancies it would be 'as good as a comedy' to witness
the display of our noblest affections, and would have all the
tenderest emotions of our nature laid bare, for him to poke fun at--the
barbarian!" ~259~~ "I did not understand Mr. Fairlegh's remark to apply
to _affaires du cour_ in general, but simply to the effects likely to be
produced in your case by such an attack," observed Miss Saville, with a
quiet smile.

"A very proper distinction," returned I; "I see that I cannot do better
than leave my defence in your hands."

"It is quite clear that you have both entered into a plot against me,"
rejoined Freddy; "well, never mind, _mea virtute me involvo_: I wrap
myself in a proud consciousness of my own immeasurable superiority, and
despise your attacks."

"I have read, that to begin by despising your enemy, is one of the
surest methods of losing the battle," replied Miss Saville.

"Oh! if you are going to quote history against me, I yield
at once--there is nothing alarms me so much as the sight of a
blue-stocking," answered Freddy.

Miss Saville proceeded to defend herself with much vivacity against this
charge, and they continued to converse in the same light strain for some
time longer; Coleman, as usual, being exceedingly droll and amusing,
and the young lady displaying a decided talent for delicate and
playful _badinage_. In order to enter _con spirito_ into this style
of conversation, we must either be in the enjoyment of high health and
spirits, when our light-heartedness finds a natural vent in gay raillery
and sparkling repartee, or we must be suffering a sufficient degree of
positive unhappiness to make us feel that a strong effort is necessary
to screen our sorrow from the careless gaze of those around us. Now,
though Coleman had not been far wrong in describing me as "weak,
languid, and unhappy," mine was not a positive, but a negative
unhappiness, a gentle sadness, which was rather agreeable than
otherwise, and towards which I was by no means disposed to use the
slightest violence. I was in the mood to have shed tears with the
love-sick Ophelia, or to moralise with the melancholy Jaques, but should
have considered Mercutio a man of no feeli