“You must have taken leave of your senses, my very excellent young friend,” she murmured. “You always love her!”

“Yes, always.”

“Bah! you are mad.”

“Am I? Well, that’s a matter of opinion,” said he, running his hand through his auburn locks.

“You are vain—​that you will admit, I suppose?”

“Nothing of the sort—​never was so in my life.”

“And ape the manners of your betters.”

“Anything else?”

“Which, to say the truth, do not in any way become you.”

“Ah, you are jealous,” cried he, with asperity.