had lost their lustre, and the poppies their glow. I no longer hated the
harlequin, or envied the clown, or felt anything but mortification at my
own folly.

"Miss Angelina Lascelles, indeed!" I said to myself, as I sauntered
moodily home. "Pshaw! I shouldn't wonder if her name was Snooks!"



CHAPTER II.

THE LITTLE CHEVALIER.

A mere anatomy, a mountebank,
A threadbare juggler.

_Comedy of Errors_.

Nay, then, he is a conjuror.

_Henry VI_.

My adventure with Miss Lascelles did me good service, and cured me for
some time, at least, of my leaning towards the tender passion. I
consequently devoted myself more closely than ever to my
studies--indulged in a passing mania for genealogy and heraldry--began a
collection of local geological specimens, all of which I threw away at
the end of the first fortnight--and took to rearing rabbits in an old
tumble-down summer-house at the end of the garden. I believe that from
somewhere about this time I may also date the commencement of a great