In a private parlor of one of our great Southern cities sat two young
men, in dressing-gowns, smoking-caps, and slippers. On a table between
them stood a silver cigar-stand, a bottle of wine covered with cobwebs,
and two empty glasses. The room was exquisitely furnished, with the
exception of some questionable drawings upon the walls, and the young
men themselves were what boarding-school misses would have called
"perfect loves." Their hands were very white, their whiskers in a high
state of cultivation, their cravats were quite miraculous, and their
diamond rings of the purest water.
"Is this your last trophy?" asked Grey, poising a slipper of Cinderella
dimensions on the palm of his hand.
"That? not by a score," carelessly answered Vincent, changing his
diamond ring to the other hand; "that belongs to the pretty
boarding-school girl. I really had quite forgotten her. I wonder what
ever became of her? She was a perfect little Hebe, effervescent as
Champagne, quite worth a three months' siege."
"And believed herself married to you, I suppose?" asked Grey.
"Of course," said Vincent, laughing; "she was the most trusting little
thing you ever saw, primevally innocent in fact; it was quite
refreshing. How's the wine, Grey?"
"Capital," answered his friend, refilling his glass and holding it up to
the light with the gusto of a connoisseur. "Capital; but, Vincent, you
are a wicked dog."
"Think so?" drawled Vincent quite proudly, surveying his handsome face
in an opposite mirror.
"Yes," said Grey, "I am bad enough; but shoot me if I could be the first
to lead a woman astray."
"You sneaking poltroon," laughed Vincent; "if you did not, somebody else
would."
"That does not follow," answered Grey; "don't you believe that there are
virtuous women?"
"Ha! ha! you ought to have your picture taken now," laughed Vincent.
"Propound that question, most innocent Joseph, at our next club-meeting,
will you? The explosion of a basket of Champagne corks would be nothing
to the fizz it would make. A virtuous woman! no woman, my dear boy, was
ever virtuous but for lack of temptation and opportunity."
"I will never subscribe to that," said Grey, with a flushed cheek;
"no--not as I honor my mother and my sister."
Vincent's only answer was a slight elevation of the eyebrow, as he
pushed the bottle again toward Grey.
"No, thank you; no more for me," answered Grey, in disgust, as he left
the room.
"Green yet," said Vincent, lighting a cigar. "I can remember when I was
just such a simpleton. 'Virtuous women!' If women are virtuous, why do
they give the cold shoulder to steady moral fellows, to smile on a
reckless dog like me? I have always found women much more anxious to
ascertain the state of a man's purse than the state of his morals. If I
am an infidel on the subject of female virtue, women have only
themselves to thank for it. I believed in it once."