'Come, come, you exaggerate, my dear Miss--?
Excuse me if I am too familiar: I have not yet heard your name.' 'My name is Dorothy Greensleeves, sir: why should I conceal it?
I fear it will only serve to point an adage to future generations, and I had meant so differently! There was no young female in the county more emulous to be thought well of than I.

And what a fall was there! O, dear me, what a wicked, piggish donkey of a girl I have made of myself, to be sure! And there is no hope! O, Mr.--' And at that she paused and asked my name.
I am not writing my eulogium for the Academy; I will admit it was unpardonably imbecile, but I told it her.

If you had been there--and seen her, ravishingly pretty and little, a baby in years and mind--and heard her talking like a book, with so much of schoolroom propriety in her manner, with such an innocent despair in the matter--you would probably have told her yours.

She repeated it after me.
'I shall pray for you all my life,' she said.

'Every night, when I retire to rest, the last thing I shall do is to remember you by name.' Presently I succeeded in winning from her her tale, which was much what I had anticipated: a tale of a schoolhouse, a walled garden, a fruit-tree that concealed a bench, an impudent raff posturing in church, an exchange of flowers and vows over the garden wall, a silly schoolmate for a confidante, a chaise and four, and the most immediate and perfect disenchantment on the part of the little lady.