erybody in good spirits.
His lightheartedness was caught by all. Melancholy was a farce in the
presence of his smile; and there was no possible combination of scrapes
that could withstand his kind and brilliant raillery. At the present
moment, Ferdinand was in a sufficiently good humour with his destiny,
and he kept up the ball with effect; so that nearly an hour passed in
amusing conversation.

'You were a stranger among us yesterday,' said Count Mirabel; 'I think
you were rather diverted. I saw you did justice to that excellent Bond
Sharpe. That shows that you have a mind above prejudice. Do you know he
was by far the best man at the table except ourselves?'

Ferdinand smiled.

'It is true, he has a heart and a brain. Old Castlefyshe has neither.
As for the rest of our friends, some have hearts without brains, and the
rest brains without hearts. Which do you prefer?'

''Tis a fine question,' said Ferdinand; 'and yet I confess I should like
to be callous.'

'Ah! but you cannot be,' said the Count, 'you have a soul of great
sensibility; I see that in a moment.'

'You see very far, and very quickly, Count Mirabel,' said Ferdinand,
with a little reserve.

'Yes; in a minute,' said the Count, 'in a minute I read a person's
character. I know you are very much in love, because you changed
countenance yesterday when we were talking of women.'

Ferdinand changed countenance again. 'You are a very extraordinary man,
Count,' he at length observed.

'Of course; but, _mon cher_ Armine, what a fine day this is! What are
you going to do with yourself?'

'Nothing; I never do anything,' said Ferdinand, in an almost mournful
tone.

'A melancholy man! _Quelle betise!_ I will cure you. I will be your
friend and put you all right. Now, we will just drive down to Richmond;
we will have a light dinner, a flounder, a cutlet, and a bottle of
champagne, and then we will go to the French play. I will introduce you
to Jenny Vertpre. She is full of wit; perhaps she will ask us to supper.
_Allons, mon ami, mon cher_ Armine; _allons, mon brave!_' Ceremony was a
farce with Alcibiades de Mirabel.

Ferdinand had nothing to do; he was attracted to his companion. The
effervescence produced by yesterday's fortunate adventure had not quite
subsided; he was determined to forget his sorrows, and, if only for
a day, join in the lively chorus of _Vive la bagatelle!_ So, in a
few moments, he was safely ensconced in the most perfect cabriolet
in