Rumour is the worst
epidemic that has ever visited humanity.
But as there is nothing to be ashamed of, in half of what Rumour says
about us, we may as well meet it with a friendly face, and this I did,
when my old friends teazed or congratulated me in their peculiar way.
I shall not dwell at length upon the details of my first visit to my
old home: those persons and circumstances that may interest the
reader, more particularly, shall alone claim my attention. Ernest
Dalton was not in town, he had left some days before my arrival, and
had given no definite promise to return at a late or early date. I
only learned, that he had "gone away."
Arthur Campbell, I do not count, of course, for I saw him every day at
least, sometimes twice and oftener, in the twenty-four hours; and
Alice Merivale? She had her own story, which I may as well finish for
the reader, as I pass by.
She had been home, about three weeks, when a dashing young Englishman
took the Capital by storm. One of those tall, lean, wiry-looking
fellows with clothes so well-fitting that a pocket-full of bank-notes
would have utterly destroyed the desired effect. He wore very long and
very pointed shoes, and a peculiar little hat, made of hideous tweed,
with flaps tied over the low crown with fluttering ribbons. He carried
a tall, lean, wiry-looking stick, not a bad counterpart of himself, if
it had only had a tweed cap on one end, and a pair of tooth-pick shoes
on the other, with here and there a little slit for a silk
handkerchief, or a reserved cigar.
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