out," says St. John, "at this rate she may
keep you twenty years besieging her, and surrender by the time you are
seventy, and she is old enough to be a grandmother. I do not say the
pursuit of a particular woman is not as pleasant a pastime as any other
kind of hunting," he added; "only, for my part, I find the game won't
run long enough. They knock under too soon--that's the fault I find with
'em."

"The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, and used to
being pulled down," says Mr. Esmond.

"But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?" says the other. "Well, honest
Harry, go and attack windmills--perhaps thou art not more mad than other
people," St. John added, with a sigh.

CHAPTER III.

A PAPER OUT OF THE "SPECTATOR."

Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may read his old
grandfather's papers, chance to be presently suffering under the passion
of Love? There is a humiliating cure, but one that is easy and almost
specific for the malady--which is, to try an alibi. Esmond went away
from his mistress and was cured a half-dozen times; he came back to her
side, and instantly fell ill again of the fever. He vowed that he could
leave her and think no more of her, and so he could pretty well, at
least, succeed in quelling that rage and longing he had whenever he was
with her; but as soon as he returned he was as bad as ever again. Truly
a ludicrous and pitiable object, at least exhausting everybody's pity
but his dearest mistress's, Lady Castlewood's, in whose tender breast he
reposed all his dreary confessions, and who never tired of hearing him
and pleading for him.

Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope. Then again he would be
plagued with despair, at some impertinence or coquetry of his mistress.
For days they would be like brother and sister, or the dearest
friends--she, simple, fond, and charming--he, happy beyond measure at
her good behavior. But this would all vanish on a sudden. Either he
would be too pressing, and hint his love, when she would rebuff him
instantly, and give his vanity a box on the ear; or he would be jealous,
and with perfect good reason, of some new admirer that had sprung up,
or some rich young gentleman newly arrived in the town, that this
incorrigible flirt would set her nets and baits to draw in. If Esmond
remonstrated, the little rebel would say--"Who are you? I shall go my
own way, sirrah, and that way is towards a husband, and I don't want
YOU on