"Oh, dear no," replied he, "a little flattery delicately administered makes way amazingly amongst those whose hearts are soft and easily touched."
"Amongst which number I conclude you reckon me?" enquired Annie.
"No, indeed, you are hard-hearted and cruel to a degree to drive twenty such men as me to despair."
"I hope I shall never be reduced to do so desperate a deed; twenty such men would be a formidable phalanx—more than I could stand at all," said Miss Millar, arching her eye-brows and apparently looking on the point of laughing again.
He looked suspiciously at her, and said, after considering her countenance a moment,
"I have not made more than the first couplet of my address to Miss Emma Watson, do you think you can help me?"
"Let us hear your effusion—we will see what we can do," replied Annie.
"Emma, elegant, enchanting, Merry maiden, much is wanting—"
"But, then, I don't know what to say next—what _do_ you think is wanting?" said Mr. Alfred in the most earnest tone possible.
"I should finish it this way," suggested Annie.
"My melodious muse to make All I wish it for thy sake."
"Thank you, indeed," cried he, "what condescending goodness on your part to stoop to such kindness as to assist me with such poetical rhymes. Do you ever compose yourself?"
"How can you ask—have you not read a small volume of poems entitled, 'Way-side Flowers?'—and did you not know they were mine?"
"No, indeed! How delighted I am to be acquainted with a real author! I shall never rest till I have procured and read your poems."
"I wish you success in the search then," replied Annie, "and repose and quiet when you have succeeded."
In those days, Authors and Authoresses were far less plentiful than now; when not to know, or be nearly related to one, is a more remarkable circumstance by far, than the contrary; and Alfred Freemantle really believing Annie's assertion, looked and felt most highly exalted at the supposed discovery.
He continued, during the rest of the walk, to plague her with questions as to what species of stanzas—what measure—what style of writing she preferred, until Annie on getting free from him at length, burst into a strong invective against his stupidity and want of common sense.