Poor Jacques looked more forlorn than ever; which circumstance seemed to afford his friend extreme delight.
"Why not pay your addresses to Philippa, Jacques my boy?" he said satirically; "there's no chance for you with Belle-bouche, as you call her."
"Philippa? No, no!" sighed Jacques; "she's too brilliant."
"For you?"
"Even for me—me, the prince of wits, and coryphæus of coxcombs: yes, yes!"
And the melancholy Jacques sighed again, and looked around him with the air of a man whose last hope on earth has left him.
His friend chokes down a laugh; and stretching himself in the bright spring sunshine pouring through the window, says with a smile:
"Come, make a clean breast of it, old fellow. You were there to-day?"
"Yes, yes."
"Have a pleasant time?"