though my remaining companion was in a humour too flighty to
induce me to continue with him a moment longer. Indeed I had
avoided pretty successfully all tête-à-têetes with him since the
time when his eccentric genius led to such eccentric conduct in
our long conference in the last month.

This time, however, when I had done my work, he protested I
should stay and chat with him. I pleaded business--letters--
hurry--all in vain: he would listen to nothing, and when I tried
to move was so tumultuous in his opposition, that I was obliged
to re-seat myself to appease him.

A flow of compliments followed, every one of which I liked less
and less; but his spirits seemed uncontrollable, and, I suppose,
ran away with all that ought to check them. I laughed and
rallied as long as I possibly could, and tried to keep him in
order, by not seeming to suppose he wanted aid for that purpose:
yet still, every time I tried to rise, he stopped me, and uttered
at last Such expressions of homage--so like what Shakspeare says
of the school-boy, who makes "a sonnet on his mistress' eyebrow,"
which is always his favourite theme--that I told him his real
compliment was all to my temper, in imagining it could brook such
mockery.

This brought him once more on his knees, with such a volley of
asseverations of his sincerity, uttered with such fervour and
eloquence, that I really felt uneasy, and used every possible
means to get away from him, rallying him however all the time,
and disguising the consciousness I felt of my inability to quit
him. More and more vehement, however, he grew, till I could be