"Poh!" And Flora sang the song, without accompaniment. The desired sharp rung upon my ears, and set my nerves at rest.
"Bravo! Encore!" I cried, beneath the window, and was pelted with peach-stones.
I wonder when this duet is to come off.
Sept. 27th. Have not stirred from the house. But I have not heard any voice but Flora's. She has been uncommonly amiable and fascinating, and I—am I not rather bewitched? I cannot keep my resolution of not being flirted with. I cannot be wise, and reserved, and indifferent. Am I trifling? Or am I in earnest? Indeed I don't know. I only know I am constantly at the side of Little Handsome, without knowing how I came there. She makes me sing with her, ride with her, walk with her, at her will, and as if that was not enough for one day, to test her power over me, to-night she made me dance with her. And now I feel like a fool as I think of Etty playing a waltz for us, at Flora's request, and giving me a long, serious look as I approached the piano to compliment her playing. I could not utter a word. I answered her gaze with one as sober, and more sad, and came away to my room, to have some talk with my real self. Now for it.
Says I to Myself, "A truce to your upbraidings, you old scold; tell me at once how you find yourself affected towards this charming little Flora."
Says Myself, "There are no tastes in common between her and me."
Says I, quickly, "Music!" and triumphed a moment or two.
But the snarling old fellow asked whether I liked her singing, or her flattery? For his part, he thought we both liked to hear our own voices, and agreed in nothing else. Taste, indeed! when I would not let her sing a song I cared a fillip for.
In short, my self-communion ended in some very sage resolutions. I feared the beautiful head with the shining curls was somewhat vacant. And the heart,—was that empty likewise? Or was that hidden cell the home of all the loveliest affections, the firmest and purest faith and motive, every thing that should be there to rule the life—and—my picture on the wall? A question this.—Does she love me? "O yes!" answered vanity. "O no!" said good sense, "not at all. If your picture is in her heart, it is one of a whole gallery. Don't be a fop. It is not your character. Don't let Flora make a fool of you."
And I resolved—