"Well, to tell you the truth, I should like it very much," he said.

Mrs. Rosewarne, a little surprised, and yet glad to see Wenna enjoying
herself, regarded the whole affair with a gentle resignation. Wenna had
the gas lit and the blinds let down: then, as the evening was rather
cool, she had soon a bright fire burning in the grate. She helped to lay
the table. She produced such wines as they had. She made sundry visits
to the kitchen, and at length the banquet was ready.

What ailed the young man? He seemed beside himself with careless and
audacious mirth, and he made Mrs. Rosewarne laugh as she had not laughed
for years. It was in vain that Wenna assumed airs to rebuke his
rudeness. Nothing was sacred from his impertinence--not even the
offended majesty of her face. And at last she gave in too, and could
only revenge herself by saying things of him which, the more severe they
were, the more he seemed to enjoy. But after dinner she went to the
small piano, while her mother took a big easy-chair near the fire, and
he sat by the table, looking over some books. There was no more reckless
laughter then.

In ancient times--that is to say, in the half-forgotten days of our
youth--a species of song existed which exists no more. It was not as the
mournful ballads of these days, which seem to record the gloomy
utterances of a strange young woman who has wandered into the magic
scene in _Der Freischütz_, and who mixes up the moanings of her passion
with descriptions of the sights, and sounds she there finds around her.
It was of quite another stamp. It dealt with a phraseology of sentiment
peculiar to itself--a "patter," as it were, which came to be universally
recognized in drawing-rooms. It spoke of maidens plighting their troth,