It was a disagreeable part--a man's--an empty-headed fop's.

One could put into it neither heart nor soul: I hated it.

The play--a mere trifle--ran chiefly on the efforts of a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a fair coquette.

One lover was called the "Ours," a good and gallant but unpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough; the other was a butterfly, a talker, and a traitor: and I was to be the butterfly, talker, and traitor.
I did my best--which was bad, I know: it provoked M.Paul; he fumed.
Putting both--hands to the work, I endeavoured to do better than my best; I presume he gave me credit for good intentions; he professed to be partially content.

"Ca ira!" he cried; and as voices began sounding from the garden, and white dresses fluttering among the trees, he added: "You must withdraw: you must be alone to learn this.