thankfulness. Moreover, she recollected having heard Lorraine admire the classic perfection of Lady Mandeville's head. Motives are like harlequins—there is always a second dress beneath their first.
The next night, her glance at the glass was certainly a very satisfactory one; and, in all that pleasant consciousness which attends a new dress, she entered the drawing-room. Here a slight disappointment awaited her—Lorraine had gone to another party, and was only to join them at Mrs. Grantham's. Emily turned away from the fire-place, though there was a mirror over it, and sat down in a large arm-chair, and picked, leaf by leaf, the beautiful rosebuds which she had that very afternoon chosen with such care from the crimson multitude of their companions.
It is a very different thing to be first seen, without competitor except your own shadow, to being but one in a crowd—your head, and perhaps one arm, only visible—the first glossiness of the ringlet, and the first freshness of the white tulle, departed for ever. These are heavy disappointments at nineteen, and even a little later. Her eyes grew large and dark with the tears that, in a moment after, were checked—shame
