"Get well, dear mamma, and then we shall see where the Count turns his eyes; he is like the hero of your future novel—merit not money is his object."
"Go down and tell them to make a fire in the dining-parlour; those claret-coloured curtains are more becoming than any we have in the house, and both you and I need them."
The latter assertion was scarcely true, for Georgiana was looking very well; all external circumstances had been, of late, favourable to her, and internal no less; her uncle and Sir Edward Hales alike treating her with the utmost affection, and promising her the support her case required. Not a single word had been hither to said of the Marquis, and the Count had contrived to fulfil Isabella's desire by giving her the money she really needed, which Lord Rotheles, in his gift to her mother, did not doubt she would share. Indeed, as a man, he did not conceive that she wanted any thing. The Countess well knew she did; but she was not of the giving school; she idolized "the dear, affectionate, artless girl," and could see her want shoes and stockings, and smile when her own insolent maid remarked the "sweet young lady's sitivation."
But, in fact, the happiest impetus was given to the mind of Georgiana by the writing scheme broached by her mother. Had she known that prurient anecdotes, breaches of confidence, scandalous facts, and cruel observations, were intended to constitute the matter and to enhance the price, her very heart would have
