took any thought about his drowning, would rather have preferred it. And thus did that hope of to-morrow—which, why it should be glory in one case, and folly in another, I never could properly understand—support the Countess.
"Very pretty indeed," ejaculated Mr. St. John; "quite in character,—just like a scene in a play."
"Take me away," lisped the pretty and mignonne Mrs. De Grey, "lest I grow like what I do look upon,—I feel the reflection of her ladyship's full pink upon my own face!"
"All of luxury except its refinement," was the encomium of Lord Alfred Vernon.
"C'est que Madame a été, comme Cicerone, consulter l'oracle, qui lui a dit de suivre la nature, et elle l'a suivie, son naturel," whispered the young Comte de Merivale, who brought to England little besides a contempt for it.
Emily, however, had not this morning one critical qualification; no discontent for a commencement—no jarring interest for a continuation; she looked on her roses, and their perfume seemed to have a power like the white ones of Alnaschar, to charm away all suffering; she was leaning on Lorraine's arm—and who shall
