Oh, pretty Lilias--oh, true lady--I never saw the pleasant
crayon sketch that my mother used to speak of, but the tradition of
thee has come to me--so bright and tender, with its rose and violet
tints, and merry, melancholy dimples, that I see thee now, as then, with
the dew of thy youth still on thee, and sigh as I look, as if on a lost,
early love of mine.
'I'm out of conceit with myself,' he said; 'I'm so idle and useless; I
wish that were all--I wish myself better, but I'm such a weak coxcomb--a
father-confessor might keep me nearer to my duty--some one to scold and
exhort me. Perhaps if some charitable lady would take me in hand,
something might be made of me still.'
There was a vein of seriousness in this reverie which amused the young
lady; for she had never heard anything worse of him--very young ladies
seldom do hear the worst--than that he had played once or twice rather
high.
'Shall I ask Gertrude Chattesworth to speak to her Aunt Rebecca?' said
Lilias slyly. 'Suppose you attend her school in Martin's Row, with
"better late than never" over her chimneypiece: there are two pupils of
your own sex, you know, and you might sit on the bench with poor Potts
and good old Doolan.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74