At first all is pleasant confusion—all catches, and nothing fixes the eye—and the exclamation is as general as the gaze; but, as in all other cases, general admiration soon became individual—and Emily was very ready to pause in delight before Lorraine's favourite pictures. Whether their selection might have pleased Mr. Morland, who was a connoisseur, admits of a question—for the taste of the young is very much matter of feeling.
"Is not this little picture a proof of the truth of my assertion the other morning, that a glance out of a window was enough to annihilate a cavalier's peace of mind for a twelvemonth?"
It was "a lovely female face of seventeen"—the beauty of a coquette rather than that of a heroine—a coquette, though, of nature's making. She leant on the casement, some gathered flowers in her hand, speaking well for the simple and natural taste that loved them; the face downcast, and pensive; the long lash resting almost on the cheek, with the inward look of its dreaming mood.
There is something very suspicious in its present seriousness. It is to be doubted whether the lover (there is a lover unquestionably in
