"Fly with me!" I cried.

Her lips met mine. I held her in my arms. I felt her breath
upon my cheek! It was Hunkey.

"Fly with me. To New York! I will write romances for the Sunday
papers--real French romances, with morals to them. My style will
be appreciated. Shop girls and young mercantile persons will
adore it, and I will amass wealth with my ready pen."

Ere she could reply--ere she could articulate her ecstasy, her
husband, the Marquis, crept snake-like upon me.

Shall I write it? He kicked me out of the garden--he kicked me
into the street.

I did not return. How could I? I, so ethereal, so full of soul,
of sentiment, of sparkling originality! He, so gross, so
practical, so lop-eared!

Had I returned, the creature would have kicked me again.

So I left Paris for this place--this place, so lonely, so dismal.

Ah me!

Oh dear!

3.3. A ROMANCE.--WILLIAM BARKER, THE YOUNG PATRIOT.