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. THE COQUETTE

A STORY OF REAL LIFE

BY ELLEN ASHTON

"What a beautiful creature!" exclaimed Albert Howard to his friend as they stood at the entrance of the ballroom. "She is a perfect goddess."

"Who do you mean?" said Henry Stanhope, "for you have not yet told me of whom you speak in such raptures, though to judge by the direction your eyes have taken, the goddess is none other than my old playmate Charlotte Ferney."

"What—that divine creature with the flashing eyes, that brilliant complexion, and such a queenly form—she is one of your old playmates! Why, my dear fellow, you must have a heart of  ice; otherwise, you would have been at her feet years ago."

"Always enthusiastic!" exclaimed Stanhope with a smile.

"And you are always stoical," retorted his friend, "but come, since you really do know this bewitching fairy, present me to her at once. I would give almost anything for an introduction."

Stanhope answered with another of his meaning smiles, and taking his friend's arm, he led him across the room to where Miss Ferney sat, surrounded by her usual train of admirers. Making his way through these, Stanhope presented his friend to the beauty and, after lingering a few minutes with the group, glided away to another quarter of the room.

Meanwhile, Howard was endeavoring to entertain his new acquaintance, and, as few men could equal him in conversational ability, he soon became the most favored of the evening's suitors. When the next set took the floor, he succeeded in leading out Miss Ferney, and, as both were graceful dancers, they directly attracted the attention of the room. The gentleman had a fine figure, was known to possess a large fortune, and had a widely extended reputation as a man of ability. His partner was certainly the most beautiful woman in the room. Her form was faultless, and her dress was in the finest taste. The splendor of her complexion was unrivaled; her eyes were black and brilliant as Sybil's, and her features were in the purest Grecian style and would have seemed cut out of marble, but for the carnation in her cheek. Always in high spirits, she seemed this evening peculiarly gay, while her partner's evident admiration of her called even a richer color than usual into her cheek. To Charlotte Ferney, it was an hour of triumph, and when, at the close of the ball, Howard escorted her to her carriage, her heart was thrilled with the pride of a conquest that, she knew, was envied by half of her sex in the room.

The next day, Howard and Stanhope met in Chesnut Street, and the first words of the former, after the salutation, were in praise of Miss Ferney's beauty. After dwelling on her loveliness for some moments, during which Stanhope maintained silence or only answered in monosyllables, Howard said,

"But what was the meaning of your smile last night, Stanhope? There, you smile again in the same manner.” "I cannot see that it has any meaning. You take me to task unfairly." "No evasion, Stanhope; I see you imply something by that smile, and to be frank with you, I suspect you are no admirer—from what cause I know not—of Miss Ferney."

"You do me injustice, Howard, for I have ever thought Miss Ferney one of the most beautiful women of my acquaintance. But since you seem earnest, I will be frank with you and state what it is in Miss Ferney that I do not admire. In one word, then, she is a coquette."

For a minute, Howard looked quizzically into his friend's face, appearing to smother an inclination to smile, but, at length, as if unable to restrain the impulse, he burst into a hearty laugh.

"Forgive me, Stanhope," he said at length, "but it is so inexpressibly ludicrous. I had thought, after your long harangue, that you were about to tell me something against Miss Ferney's family, or her education, or heaven knows what—but when you made the being a coquette, the head and front of her offending,' I could not restrain a laugh, impertinent as it was. Why, my dear fellow, half the girls we know are coquettes? Indeed, I question whether a woman is good for much unless she is a bit of a flirt. I want one of your spicy, handsome girls for a wife, and not a dowdyish creature, as soft as cream and about as thick-headed.”

"I cannot agree with you on that subject at least," said Stanhope, "and I think experience would teach you that little happiness is to be found in the married state with a confirmed coquette. Nor is every one who is not a flirt a soft, dowdyish creature,' but on the contrary, they are often the sweetest as well as the most enchanting of their sex. A woman—believe me—who can trifle with a man's affections by encouraging or even allowing attentions that she is unwilling to ratify by marriage is, at best, a heartless creature, incapable of loving as a woman should love, and deserving no pity if her own affections, or rather her vanity, should be outraged."

"You are warm, Stanhope," said his friend, "but even admitting the truth—which I will not—of all you say, you have, as yet, failed to shew that Miss Ferney is a confirmed coquette."

"Had you known her as long as I have, you would not have doubted it. I could name a dozen whom she has heartlessly jilted after having given them every encouragement except that of words. Her conduct last