"Only utter a polite speech, and smile, and wrap a lady's shawl around her shoulders—flirt her fan, or caress her poodle—and, in public estimation, you are gone," observed the poet; "the community roll their eyes, shake their heads, and declare that it is very obvious—that you are so far gone, as not even to pretend to conceal it. Shocking, sir!"
And Roundjacket chuckled.
"It's very wrong," said Verty, shaking his head; "I wonder they do it."
"Therefore, keep away from the ladies, my young friend," added Roundjacket, with an elderly air—"that is the safest way. Get some snug bachelor retreat like this, and be happy with your pipe. Imitate me, in dressing-gown and slippers. So shall you be happy!"
Roundjacket chuckled again, and contemplated the cornice.
At the same moment a carriage was heard to stop before the door, and the poet's eyes descended.
"I wonder who comes to see me," he said, "really now, in a chariot."
Verty, from his position, could see through the window.
"Why, it's the Apple Orchard chariot!" he said, "and there is Miss
Lavinia!"
At this announcement, Mr. Roundjacket's face assumed an expression of dastardly guilt, and he avoided Verty's eye.