“You may do what you like; but Miss L*** is worth a hundred thousand dollars if she is worth a cent; and she has sworn never to marry, except an European or an American who has remained long enough in Europe to become civilized.”
“Delightful creature that!” cried the Bostonian: “then I presume I should stand no chance with her at all.”
“C’est selon. Vous êtes beau garçon, appartenez à une bonne famille; vous avez de quoi vivre: mais vous chiquez, et, surtout vous crachez, et Mademoiselle L*** ne pardonne nullement de pareils forfaits.”
Here the finished Parisian stepped before the looking-glass, tightened his cravat so as to give himself a colour, drew the pale emaciated fingers of his right hand a dozen times through his front hair, studied the most becoming position of his hat, arranged most tastefully two large curls which concealed the cavities of his temples, put on his French kid gloves, exercised himself in balancing a small switch,—which altogether did not take him more than thirty-five minutes,—and then left the room as if he had never known any one of its occupants.
“Clever fellow that!” exclaimed the Philadelphian: “spent all his father’s property in learning how to live, and is now marrying one of our richest girls.”
“Capital hit!” cried the Bostonian.
“Equal to a profession,” ejaculated the lawyer.
“Pray, what may your profession be worth a-year?” asked the New-Yorker.
“The profession is worth a great deal, but I myself get nothing by it,” replied the barrister.
“How long is it since you practised law?”