“Anything but tr—­ump—­ump—­umpery; it came down from my ancestors.”

“You never had any; your behavior shows that.”

“I tell you it is an heirloom.  It was given to my mother by—­”

“Oh, we know all about that,” said Julia. “’This bracelet did an Egyptian to my mother give.’  But you are not going to play Othello with me.”

“I shouldn’t have a very gentle Desdemona.”

“No, you wouldn’t, candidly.  No man shall ever bully and insult me, and then wake me out of my first sleep to smother me because my maid has lost one of his handkerchiefs at the wash.”

He burst out laughing at this, and tried to inveigle her into good-humor.

“Say no more about it,” said he, “and I’ll forgive you.”

“Forgive me, you little wretch!” cried Julia.  “Why, haven’t you the sense to see that it is serious this time, and my patience is exhausted, and that our engagement is broken off, and I never mean to see you again—­except when you come to my wedding?”

“Your wedding!” cried Percy, turning pale.  “With whom?”

“That’s my business; you leave that to me, sir.  Hold out your hand—­both hands; here is the ancestral bracelet—­it shall pinch me no longer, neither my wrist nor my heart; here’s the brooch you gave me—­I won’t be pinned to it any longer, nor to you neither; and there is your bunch of charms; and there is your bundle of love-letters—­stupid ones they are;” and she crammed all the aforesaid treasures into his hands one after the other.  So this was what she went to her room for.

Percy looked down on his handful ruefully.  “My very letters!  There was no jealousy in them; they were full of earnest love.”

“Fuller of bad spelling,” said the relentless girl.  Then she went into details:  “You spell abominable with two m’s—­and that’s abominable; you spell ridiculous with a k—­and that’s ridicklous.  So after this don’t you presume to speak to me, for I shall never speak to you again.”

“Very well, then,” said Percy.  “I, too, will be silent forever.”

“Oh, I dare say,” said Julia; “a chatter-box like you.”

“Even chatter-boxes are silent in the grave,” suggested Percy; “and if we are to part like this forever to-day, to-morrow I shall be no more.”

“Well, you could not be much less,” said Julia, but with a certain shame-faced change of tone that perhaps, if Percy had been more experienced, might have given him a ray of hope.

“Well,” said he, “I know one lady that would not treat these presents with quite so much contempt.”

“Oh, I have seen her,” said Julia, spitefully.  “She has been setting her cap at you for some time; it’s Miss Susan Beckley—­a fine conquest—­great, fat, red-haired thing.”

“Auburn.”

“Yes, all-burn, scarlet, carrots, flamme d’enfer.  Well, go and give her my leavings, yourself and your ancestral—­paste.”

“Well,” said Percy, gloomily, “I might do worse.  You never really loved me; you were always like an enemy looking out for faults.  You kept postponing our union for something to happen to break it off.  But I won’t be any woman’s slave; I’ll use one to drive out the other.  None of you shall trample on me.”  Then he burst forth into singing.  Nobody stammers when he sings.