Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. He was in a curious state of desperation. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. The name of this damsel was Edgeworth Bess; and, as her fascinations will not, perhaps, be found to be without some influence upon the future fortunes of her boyish admirer, we have thought it worth while to be thus particular in describing them. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. I—well, I lost my temper. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. .
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