had thought bleu céleste, at least in the country. What a march does a woman's intellect, i.e. taste, take in the streets of London!
Exactly at five they were at the dowager's door—exactly five minutes after, they were seated in her dining-room; and Emily began to consider whether she or the wine-coolers were most chilled—whether Lady Etheringhame's black satin or herself were stiffest—and whether she weighed her words as she did her food in the little pair of scales by her side. They adjourned to the drawing-room, and sat "like figures ranged upon a dial-plate." The French clock on the mantel-piece ticked audibly—Lady Alicia dozed—their hostess detailed symptoms and remedies, and eulogised mustard-seed,—while Emily sat like a good child, playing propriety, and looking the listener at least. Ten o'clock came at last, and with it the carriage.
"I am afraid, mamma, you are so tired," said the daughter.
"How much we give to thoughts and things our tone,
And judge of others' feelings by our own!"
"I hope Miss Arundel will do me the honour of accompanying you on your next visit?"
