"I don't want you to change at all, Mr. Verty," she said; "only to take this modus addendi, which is the Greek for way,—to take this way to find out. I would not advise it, of course, if it was wrong, and it is the best thing you could do, indeed."
Verty strongly combated this plan, but was met at every turn, by Miss Sallianna, with ready logic; and the result, as is almost always the case when men have the temerity to argue with ladies, was a total defeat. Verty was convinced, or talked obtuse upon the subject, and with many misgivings, acquiesced in Miss Sallianna's plan.
That lady then went on in a sly and careful manner—possibly diplomatic would be the polite word—to suggest herself as the most proper object of Verty's experiment. He might make love to her if he wished—she would not be offended. He might even kiss her hand, and kneel to her, and perform any other gallant ceremony he fancied—she would make allowances, and not become angry if he even proceeded so far as to write her billet-doux, and ask her hand in a matrimonial point of view. Miss Sallianna wound up by saying, that it would be an affair of rare and opprobrious interest; and, as a comedy, would be positively deleterious, which was probably a lapsus linguae for "delicious."
So when Verty rose to take his departure, he was a captive to Miss Sallianna's bow and spear; or more accurately, to her fan and tongue: and had promised to come on the very next day, after school hours, and commence the amusing trial of Reddy's affections. The lady tapped him with her fan, smiled languidly, and rolled up her eyes—Verty bowed, and took his leave of her.
He mounted Cloud, and calling Longears, took his way sadly toward town. Could he not look back and see those tender eyes following him from the lattice of Redbud's room—and blessing him?
CHAPTER XXIV.
OF THE EFFECT OF VERTY'S VIOLIN-PLAYING UPON MR. RUSHTON.
The young man had just reached the foot of the hill, upon which the Bower of Nature stood—have we not mentioned before the name which Miss Sallianna had bestowed upon the seminary?—when he heard himself accosted by a laughing and careless voice, and raised his head, to see from whom it proceeded.
The voice, apparently, issued from a gentleman who had drawn rein in the middle of the road, and was gazing at him with great good humor and freedom. Verty returned this gaze, and the result of his inspection was, that the new-comer was a total stranger to him. He was a young man of about nineteen, with handsome features, characterized by an expression of nonchalance and careless good humor; clad in a very rich dress, somewhat foppish, but of irreproachable taste; and the horse he bestrode was an animal as elegant in figure and appointments as his master.
"Hallo, friend!" the new-comer had said, "give you good-day."