ceedingly fine name, that it seems a downright impertinence to ascertain what it really is."
"Why, as you say," exclaimed Walter, "an epithet does go a great way. It is not so much what a thing is, as what it is called."
Lavinia's only reply was, to hum a stanza from the opera, then in its earliest popularity:—
"'Since laws were made for every degree,
For others, as well as for you and for me;
I wonder we have not better company
On Tyburn tree.'
I am as hoarse as a raven, begging my own pardon for the comparison. Now, what has led to my train of thoughts to-night is, looking over Sir George Kingston's love-letters."
"Does he shew them to you?" asked Walter, with uncontrollable surprise.
"Why, what do you think he keeps them for, but, to shew? They are really quite encouraging to me: there is not so much difference between the green-room and the drawing-room; only to be sure, my coquetry is paid for!"
