uage." He had scarcely spoken when she
entered. I was seized with certain misgivings and flutterings which a
clownish education may account for. I so far conquered my timidity,
however, as to snatch a look at her. I was not born to execute her
portrait. Perhaps the turban that wreathed her head, the brilliant
texture and inimitable folds of her drapery, and nymphlike port, more
than the essential attributes of her person, gave splendour to the
celestial vision. Perhaps it was her snowy hues, and the cast rather
than the position of her features, that were so prolific of enchantment;
or perhaps the wonder originated only in my own ignorance.

She did not immediately notice me. When she did she almost shrieked with
surprise. She held up her hands, and, gazing upon me, uttered various
exclamations which I could not understand. I could only remark that her
accents were thrillingly musical. Her perturbations refused to be
stilled. It was with difficulty that she withdrew her regards from me.
Much conversation passed between her and Welbeck, but I could comprehend
no part of it. I was at liberty to animadvert on the visible part of
their intercourse. I diverted some part of my attention from my own
embarrassments, and fixed it on their looks.

In this art, as in most others, I was an unpractised simpleton. In the
countenance of Welbeck, there was somewhat else than sympathy with the
astonishment and distress of the lady; but I could not interpret these
additional tokens. When her attention was engrossed by Welbeck, her eyes
were frequently vagrant or downcast; her cheeks contracted a deeper hue;
and her breathing was almost prolonged into a sigh. These were marks on
which I made no comments at the time. My own situation was calculated to
breed confusion in my thoughts and awkwardness in my gestures. Breakfast
being finished, the lady, apparently at the request of Welbeck, sat down
to a piano-forte.

Here again I must be silent. I was not wholly destitute of musical
practice and musical taste. I had that degree of knowledge which enabled
me to estimate the transcendent skill of this performer. As if the
pathos of her touch were insufficient, I found after some time that the
lawless jarrings of the keys were chastened by her own more liquid
notes. She played without a book, and, though her bass might be
preconcerted, it was plain that her right-hand notes were momentary and
spontaneous inspirations. Meanwhile Welbeck stood, l