“Who?” said I.
“Matilda and Fanny, to be sure.”
“Why, you know them, then?”
“I should think I do.”
“Where have you met them?”
“Where have I not? When I was in the Rifles they were quartered at Zante. Matilda was just then coming it rather strong with Villiers, of ours, a regular greenhorn. Fanny, also, nearly did for Harry Nesbitt, by riding a hurdle race. Then they left for Gibraltar, in the year,—what year was it?”
“Come, come,” said I, “this is a humbug; the girls are quite young; you just have heard their names.”
“Well, perhaps so; only tell me which is your peculiar weakness, as they say in the west, and may be I’ll convince you.”
“Oh, as to that,” said I, laughing, “I’m not very far gone on either side.”
“Then, Matilda, probably, has not tried you with Cowley, eh?—you look a little pink—‘There are hearts that live and love alone.’ Oh, poor fellow, you’ve got it! By Jove, how you’ve been coming it, though, in ten days! She ought not to have got to that for a month, at least; and how like a young one it was, to be caught by the poetry. Oh, Master Charley, I thought that the steeple-chaser might have done most with your Galway heart,—the girl in the gray habit, that sings ‘Moddirederoo,’ ought to have been the prize! Halt! by Saint George, but that tickles you also! Why, zounds, if I go on, probably, at this rate, I’ll find a tender spot occupied by the ‘black lady’ herself.”