On being thus smacked with words, the young man seemed less puzzled,
for this, indeed, was the female Mentor whose tender moods were always
a surprise to him, so much more accustomed was he to be scolded.

Though Steinbock was nine-and-twenty, like many fair men, he looked
five or six years younger; and seeing his youth, though its freshness
had faded under the fatigue and stress of life in exile, by the side
of that dry, hard face, it seemed as though Nature had blundered in
the distribution of sex. He rose and threw himself into a deep chair
of Louis XV. pattern, covered with yellow Utrecht velvet, as if to
rest himself. The old maid took a greengage and offered it to him.

"Thank you," said he, taking the plum.

"Are you tired?" said she, giving him another.

"I am not tired with work, but tired of life," said he.

"What absurd notions you have!" she exclaimed with some annoyance.
"Have you not had a good genius to keep an eye on you?" she said,
offering him the sweetmeats, and watching him with pleasure as he ate
them all. "You see, I thought of you when dining with my cousin."

"I know," said he, with a look at Lisbeth that was at once
affectionate and plaintive, "but for you I should long since have
ceased to live. But, my dear lady, artists require relaxation----"

"Ah! there we come to the point!" cried she, interrupting him, her
hands on her hips, and her flashing eyes fixed on him. "You want to go
wasting your health in the vile resorts of Paris, like so many