"Oh, yes," said he, very dryly, "I have one more."
"What may that be?"
"That I WILL marry her."
"Oh!..." said I.
And without exchanging another word, I put on my great coat, and we sallied forth together to the rendezvous of the lovers. The fair fugitive was true to her appointment, and at the first sound of the expected footfall, glided from her concealment into the happy scoundrel's arms. The action which followed I could not see (though it was a bright moonlight,) for a breeze lifted the large veil which hung over the lady's shoulder, in such a manner as to envelope the countenances of both. What the action ought to have been, perhaps you, madam, or you, mademoiselle, may inform me?—I only know that when the modest zephyr passed, and the veil fell back again, the fair cheek that it revealed glowed with
"A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't,
Might well have warm'd old Saturn."
Harry gave me his hand (heartily) as he stood on the carriage step, and the bride wafted me a farewell with the prettiest action of her fan from the window, and murmured,—"Give me a good wish for the tobacconist."
"Yes," said I; "may you never have occasion to say of the love that now leads you to him, that
"'Its beacon light is quench'd in smoke.'"