This explanation caused a momentary mortification in the imaginative
Euphemia; but her busy mind was nimble in its erection of airy
castles, and she rallied in a moment with the idea that "he might be
more than a lord." At any rate, let him be what he may, he charmed
her; and he had much ado to parry the increasing boldness of her
speeches, without letting her see they were understood.
"You are very diffident, Mr. Constantine," cried she, looking down.
"If I consider you worthy of my friendship, why should _you_
make disqualifying assertions?"
"Every man, madam," returned Thaddeus, bowing as he rose from his
chair, "must be diffident of deserving the honor of your notice."
"There is no man living," replied she, "to whom I would offer my
friendship but yourself."
Thaddeus bit his lip; he knew not what to answer. Bowing a second
time, he stretched out his hand and drew his hat towards him.
Euphemia's eyes followed the movement.
"You are in a prodigious haste, Mr. Constantine!"
"I know I intrude, madam; and I have promised to be with my sick
friend at an early hour."
"Well, you may go, since you are obliged," returned the pretty
Euphemia, rising, and smiling sweetly as she laid one hand on his arm
and put the other into her tucker. She drew out a little white
leather _souvenir_, marked on the back in gold letters with the
words, "_Toujours cher_;" and slipping it into his hand, "There,
receive that, _monsignor_, or whatever else you may be called,
and retain it as the first pledge of Euphemia Dundas's friendship.
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