That she was the dupe of his art, may be doubted: that he lost nothing by
it, is certain. Men are not ruined by civility. As soon as she was
seated, she said, "I beg, sir, you will waste no more time with me. Mr.
Severne, you have behaved to me like a gentleman, and that is very
unusual in a man of your age nowadays. I cannot alter my opinion about my
niece and you: but I _am_ sorry you are a poor gentleman--much too poor
to marry her, and I wish I could make you a rich one; but I cannot. There
is my hand."
You should have seen the air of tender veneration with which the young
Machiavel bowed over her hand, and even imprinted a light touch on it
with his velvet lips.
Then he retired, disconsolate, and, once out of sight, whipped into a
gin-palace and swallowed a quartern of neat brandy, to take the taste out
of his mouth. "Go it, Ned," said he, to himself; "you can't afford to
make enemies.
The old lady went off bitter against the whole party _except Mr.
Severne;_ and he retired to his friends, disembarrassed of the one foe he
had not turned into a downright friend, but only disarmed. Well does the
great Voltaire recommend what he well calls "le grand art de plaire.
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