him to be happy.'

'It is the song I ever sing,' said the Count. 'I wish some of you would
come and see him, or send him a message. It is wise to show him that
there are some who take interest in his existence. Now, give me that
flower, for instance, and let me give it to him from you.'

'He will not care for it,' said Miss Temple. 'Try. It is a fancy I have.
Let me bear it.' Miss Temple gave the flower to the Count, who rode off
with his prize.

It was about eight o'clock: Ferdinand was sitting alone in his
room, having just parted with Glastonbury, who was going to dine in
Brook-street. The sun had set, and yet it was scarcely dark enough for
artificial light, particularly for a person without a pursuit. It was
just that dreary dismal moment, when even the most gay grow pensive,
if they be alone. And Ferdinand was particularly dull; a reaction had
followed the excitement of the last eight-and-forty hours, and he was at
this moment feeling singularly disconsolate, and upbraiding himself
for being so weak as to permit himself to be influenced by Mirabel's
fantastic promises and projects, when his door flew open, and the Count,
full dressed, and graceful as a Versailles Apollo, stood before him.

'_Cher ami!_ I cannot stop one minute. I dine with Fitzwarrene, and I am
late. I have done your business capitally. Here is a pretty flower! Who
do you think gave it me? She did, pardy. On condition, however, that
I should bear it to you, with a message; and what a message! that you
should be happy.'

'Nonsense, my dear Count'

'It is true; but I romanced at a fine rate for it. It is the only way
with women. She thinks we have known each other since the Deluge. Do not
betray me. But, my dear fellow, I cannot stop now. Only, mind, all is
changed. Instead of being gay, and seeking her society, and amusing
her, and thus attempting to regain your influence, as we talked of last
night; mind, suicide is the system. To-morrow I will tell you all. She
has a firm mind and a high spirit, which she thinks is principle. If
we go upon the tack of last night, she will marry Montfort, and fall in
love with you afterwards. That will never do. So we must work upon her
fears, her generosity, pity, remorse, and so on. Call upon me to-morrow
morning, at half-past two; not before, because I have an excellent boy
coming to me at one, who is in a scrape. At half-past two, _cher, cher_
Armine, we will talk more. In the meantime, enjoy your flower