rests.

On Emily's side, the attraction felt is of another nature altogether.
Among the merry young people at Monksmoor she is her old happy self
again; and she finds in Mr. Mirabel the most agreeable and amusing man
whom she has ever met. After those dismal night watches by the bed of
her dying aunt, and the dreary weeks of solitude that followed, to
live in this new world of luxury and gayety is like escaping from the
darkness of night, and basking in the fall brightn ess of day. Cecilia
declares that she looks, once more, like the joyous queen of the
bedroom, in the bygone time at school; and Francine (profaning
Shakespeare without knowing it), says, "Emily is herself again!"

"Now that your arm is in its right place, reverend sir," she gayly
resumes, "I may admit that there are exceptions to all rules. My waist
is at your disposal, in a case of necessity--that is to say, in a case
of waltzing."

"The one case of all others," Mirabel answers, with the engaging
frankness that has won him so many friends, "which can never happen in
my unhappy experience. Waltzing, I blush to own it, means picking me
up off the floor, and putting smelling salts to my nostrils. In other
words, dear Miss Emily, it is the room that waltzes--not I. I can't look
at those whirling couples there, with a steady head. Even the exquisite
figure of our young hostess, when it describes flying circles, turns me
giddy."

Hearing this allusion to Cecilia, Emily drops to the level of the
other girls. She too pays her homage to the Pope of private life. "You
promised me your unbiased opinion of Cecilia," she reminds him; "and you
haven't given it yet."

The ladies' friend gently remonstrates. "Miss Wyvil's beauty dazzles me.
How can I give an unbiased opinion? Besides, I am not thinking of her; I
can only think of you."

Emily lifts her eyes, half merrily, half tenderly, and looks at him over
the top of her fan. It is her first effort at flirtation. She is tempted
to engage in the most interesting of all games to a girl--the game
which plays at making love. What has Cecilia told her, in those
bedroom gossipings, dear to the hearts of the two friends? Cecilia has
whispered, "Mr. Mirabel admires your figure; he calls you 'the Venus of
Milo, in a state of perfect abridgment.'" Where is the daughter of Eve,
who would not have been flattered by that pretty compliment--who would
not have talked soft nonsense in return? "You can only think of Me,"
Emil