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thy spirit, and makes thee hesitate and stammer like a culprit. It is provoking.

Dart. You profess a violent detestation of conceit, my shrewd Sir; where, then, is your indulgence for modesty?

Walt. You mistake the matter, Dartz. Your friend there, has as good a conceit of himself as any man: he is not modest, but bashful; a weakness too that only besets him in the presence of his mistress. By this good fist of mine! it provokes me almost to the cudgelling of such an unaccountable ninny. But I would cudgel thee, and serve thee too, De Bertrand. Take courage; we have a plot in our heads to make a man of thee at last.

Dart. (aside, pulling Walt. by the sleeve.) Say not a word of the plot: his sense of honour is so delicate, he would recoil at it.

Ant. A plot did you say?

Walt. Aye, a kind of a plot;—that is to say—What kind of a plot is it, Dartz?

Dart. Have you forgot your own scheme for cheating the virtuoso, when your cabinet of antiquities comes to the hammer?

Walt. By my fay! this memory of mine is not worth a pinch of tobacco. (Seeing Ant. look at his watch.) Art thou going any where?

Ant. No;—I did think—I believe I shall take a turn on the terrace.

Dart. (to Ant.) I understand you: take a turn in the cabinet of paintings rather; that will suit your purpose better.